


Towards the Sun

by 27th



Category: Captive Prince - C. S. Pacat
Genre: Implied/Referenced Child Abuse, M/M, Religious Content, Shameless Use Of Artistic License, Slavery, Slow Burn
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-02-03
Updated: 2019-01-26
Packaged: 2019-03-12 23:39:24
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 16
Words: 26,546
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13558017
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/27th/pseuds/27th
Summary: “Another blond, Damen, really?”Damen just grins and grabs Laurent’s wrist tight enough to bruise, hauling him outside like another piece of stolen treasure.Laurent gets captured by Akielon raiders and sold as a slave. Loosely based on Vikings.





	1. Chapter 1

 

#  _i._

When he’s thirteen Laurent runs away to a monastery in Acquitart. The country, if it can be called that, holds little in the ways of wealth, importance, or size—in fact it holds little more than the monastery itself—but none of that matters to Laurent. Acquitart is considered holy ground. Any invasion by the much larger kingdom of Vere that surrounds it would be blasphemy, and even his uncle, the Regent, is not above God.

 

 

Monastery life isn’t so bad once Laurent adapts. With his sharp mind he takes to Latin quickly and finds he enjoys the relative quiet of holy life, interspersed here and there with a chant or a prayer. And though it would be a lie to say that Laurent believes in God, he doesn’t mind immersing himself in the gospel. It’s comforting to think that if there is a heaven Auguste is there watching over him.

It’s more comforting to think of an all powerful being striking his uncle down and tossing him into an eternal hellfire—even if that means Laurent burns too.

 

 

His brown monk’s robes are scratchy and ragged compared to his previous wardrobe of silk and brocade, hem dragging along in the dirt as he goes about his daily tasks. Father Herode has offered to get him something nicer, but he prefers it this way. After all, beauty corrupts. 

Laurent still dreams of gentle fingers stroking his hair and his uncle’s voice saying on a sigh, _"Oh Laurent, if only you weren’t such a lovely boy._ "

 

 

At twenty years old Laurent has put his past to rest. He knows he will stay in this monastery for the rest of his life. He knows it’s the only place safe.

Until it isn’t.

 

 

The men come from the South.

The hysterical monk who’s seen them claims they are devils here to carry out divine punishment on the wicked. The warning bell tolls. Monks scramble around in a panic. The majority of them stay with Father Herode as he leads them in prayer and tells them to trust in God.

God has never done Laurent any favors.

He hides in the chapel, keeping with him only the book of John. The barbarians may take everything else but they can’t have this; books are not made for savage hands. Crouched behind the altar, Laurent waits. Distantly he hears the cries of his brothers being slaughtered, hears the sound of weapons hacking through flesh and bone, hears their pleas to an indifferent God. Laurent does not cry, Auguste wouldn’t cry—but, then again, Auguste wouldn’t hide.

Finally, inevitably, the door swings open and there’s heavy footsteps, two pairs. The language they speak is something vaguely familiar, Akielon perhaps.

“... maybe there’s some kind of spell on these treasures?”

“Or maybe they think their God will protect them.”

“This is their God?” Laurent knows they must be looking at the cross on the wall that depicts Jesus Christ, sacrificed for the sins of man. They laugh. “What good is he to them? He is dead.”

Laurent’s thighs ache from staying in the same position so long, muscles trembling with it. He shifts his weight minutely and the creak of his sandals on the dirt floor is audible. Laurent holds very still and hopes the sound of their laughter covered the noise.

It didn’t.

A large hand, broad and dark-skinned, grabs his arm and yanks him from his hiding place. Laurent is thrown to the ground then met with a knife beneath his chin. Adrenaline surges and he blurts ‘ _wait!_ ’ in Akielon. It's been years since he’s been taught by the palace instructors and his accent is thick, unsuited for such a harsh language. Still, the giant barbarian pulls the knife away. He holds it loosely at his side, fingers curled casually around the hilt, ready to kill at a moments notice.

The Akielon’s dark eyes trace over his face. With the hand not holding the knife he brushes his knuckles against Laurent’s pale cheek, then moves to rub the gilt tips of Laurent’s hair between his fingertips. It’s then Laurent realizes he’s made a terrible mistake; he should have just let himself be killed. What happens now will be far worse.

“You speak our language?” The barbarian asks. Laurent purses his lips, clutching the book of John like a shield, and doesn’t respond. Laurent prides himself on impeccable self control, but he doesn’t manage to stifle a gasp as the brute lifts him and shoves him effortlessly back against the wall. He’s tall enough to loom over Laurent. The knife is beneath his chin once more, tipping it up so that Laurent has no choice but to meet his eyes.

“How?” the man asks.

“There are missionaries that visit far away places to spread the word of God. One of them taught me,” Laurent lies. He tries to keep his voice steady and fails. Those dark eyes study him closely, lingering on his lips, then falling lower.

“What is that?” he asks, stepping back and gesturing to the book still clutched in Laurent’s hands. Laurent blinks. These savages are even more backwards than he’d initially thought.

“It’s a book,” he says slowly, as if speaking to a child. The barbarian snatches it from his hands and shakes it open. Laurent resists the urge to grab it back, glowering at how roughly the over-sized heathen handles the pages. Eyes rove over the carefully inked sentences and, apparently, find nothing of value because he tosses the book back to Laurent.

“All these treasures yet you chose to save this,” he says, an amused twist to his lips. He has a dimple in his left cheek. Laurent is saved from replying by another large heathen stalking into the chapel. He resembles the one standing in front of him but looks older, with facial hair and a hungry expression. His eyes land squarely on Laurent.

“Why have you not killed this one, brother? Shall I do it for you?”

He makes to step forward but the brute in front of Laurent immediately him shoves back.

“He’s worth more alive to sell as a slave."

For a minute they both stare at each other with barely suppressed violence, then the bearded one turns and takes his sword to the wooden cross on the wall, hacking it to pieces. Violence slaked, he shoulders past the other Akielon in the room who’s been watching both exchanges warily from near the door. He also looks a few years older than the animal—Laurent hesitates to call him, or any of them, a _man—_ who’d pulled him from behind the altar, and he regards Laurent with something like exasperation.

“Another blond, Damen, really?”

The brute— _Damen—_ just grins and grabs Laurent’s wrist tight enough to bruise, hauling him outside like another piece of stolen treasure.

He lets Laurent keep the book.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> i finally watched vikings, became obsessed, and this happened. i'm taking the shorter chapters, faster updates approach? but we'll see since i have no idea what i'm doing or where this is going. if any of you readers have things you want to see happen in this story, feel free to throw ideas at me!
> 
> comments & kudos please!


	2. Chapter 2

 

#  _ii._

The ship ride to Akielos is miserable. The waves churn in time with Laurent's roiling stomach and the boy next to him, Brother Aimeric, shivers and mutters prayers constantly while the wind whips at their hair and skin.

More than once he catches Damen watching him.

 

 

Laurent has taken to reading the gospel to pass the time. It keeps his mind away from darker places, like what will happen to him once they reach shore. He also observes the barbarians, learning their names and other facts that might be of use in the future. From the corner of his eye he spies Damen placing a hand on a fellow Akielon’s shoulder, the wary one from before named Nikandros.

“We did it, Nik.”

Nikandros continues rowing while he gives Damen a wry smile.

“Yes, we did it. Let’s just hope your father sees it that way.”

 

 

When next Laurent opens his eyes it’s to a hand gently tapping his face, a warm calloused palm big enough to swallow whole the curve of his cheek. He startles and jerks only to find himself still bound to the ship mast, skin chapped from the wind and salt and sea.

They’ve reached shore.

Damen is crouched in front of him. He gives the ropes binding his wrists a tug. To his right, Aimeric looks absolutely terrified.

“Get up,” he orders.

Laurent gets up. A rope is fitted around his neck and he’s bound to the other monks who have also been taken as slaves. Something hysterical rises in him that Laurent squashes down mercilessly. If only his uncle could see him now. At least one of them would enjoy this.

He’s shoved and prodded along the shore, sand filling his sandals with every step. The air is hot and muggy, stagnant save for a blessedly cool breeze that comes and goes like the tide. To his left are white cliffs that stretch towards the sky, as blinding in the sunlight as they are foreign. He could never have pictured a place farther from the shaded forests of Vere.

They make their way down the beach and around the cliffs before starting the miserable climb upwards. Even on flatter land it’s a formidable trek. Laurent’s hair sticks to his face and neck, and his feet constantly slide on the loose dirt and unfamiliar terrain. By the time they’re being shoved into what must pass for a throne room here, Laurent is only standing by sheer force of will. The rest of his brothers have collapsed to the cool white stone that makes up the cavernous space, sunlight streaming in from windows high on the walls.

The dais in the middle of the room is curiously low, barely higher than the ground, and laden with the pelts of great beasts, the most formidable of which drapes the king’s chair: a golden lion with a gaping maw and dead eyes. A slave kneels at the edge of the dais, naked save for a golden collar and matching wristbands. The sheer piece of fabric that drapes her lap can only generously be called a loin cloth. Her breasts are bare, nipples pierced through with some kind of ivory. From the corner of his eye Laurent can see Aimeric trying not to stare in horror at the barbaric display.

Damen suddenly strides into the room, clearly having bathed and changed clothes in the time they’d been waiting, resplendent in a white chiton with a red cape fluttering in his wake. Following him is an older man with a long beard and wrinkles about his wizened eyes. His face seems as if cut from stone, hard and unmoving. Atop his head is a crown of golden laurel leaves.

Noise ceases as he takes the throne, the queen’s chair empty beside him. Once he’s seated all throughout the room men fall to their knees, slaves prostrating themselves on the floor even lower. It becomes clear that in Akielos it is the job of the people to lower themselves for their king, rather than the king’s job to ascend above the commoners.

Laurent makes no move to lower himself. Damen only bows his head and, when he spies Laurent from the corner of his eyes, gives him a considering look before walking over and shoving him to his knees with a hand on his shoulder. They hit the stone hard enough to bruise but Laurent swallows the instinctual yelp of pain; this earns him another considering look. Laurent stares back, eyes cold, blue, and baleful.

Damen releases his shoulder and turns back to the king, stepping forward before dipping to one knee and bowing his head. “Father, I have returned from the North,” he says.

“Rise, Damianos.”

Damen does, then gestures expansively at all the treasure they’d looted from the monastery. “These are the treasures we found on our raid.” A cheer goes up from the surrounding Akielons, and Damen’s fellow warriors stomp their feet. “And there is much more wealth to be found in the North,” Damen says, raising his voice. “It was easy to take from them; they had no weapons. The treasures in their temples were unguarded save for their priests.” He gestures with his chin to where he and his brothers are gathered, tied with ropes like livestock and cowering on the floor. The Akielons laugh and Laurent grits his teeth. “We captured many of them to sell for slaves.” Damen turns and addresses the court. “It must be true that there are many more such holy places in Vere filled with treasure. To sail there would benefit us all!”

The cheers echo off white rock until Laurent’s ears ring.

“Damianos,” the king says and everyone quiets once more. “My son, you have made me proud. You have enriched your kingdom.” A pause. “However, you went against the direct order of your king not to sail North.” The king raises his voice to address the court, “Therefore you shall only be allowed one treasure from this haul.” Laurent supposes that's lenient considering Damen’s flagrant disregard for the king’s authority. If he were not a prince the punishment would have been much harsher. In the crowd Laurent spots Damen’s brother, Kastor, who looks at once smug and sour. The king sweeps a hand out, gesturing at the pile of gold, jewels, and silver. “You may choose.”

Damen bows his head in acquiesce then turns and strides towards the riches. He runs his fingers over a carefully crafted gold cross inlaid with rubies, then an equally golden chalice that depicts the scene of a hunt along its cup, before lifting his eyes to Laurent. His gaze feels as solid as a touch. Laurent refuses to look away first.

Damen breaks their staring contest and turns with a grin to his father. The dimple in his left his cheek is back. “I’ll take the priest.”

The king’s eyes pass over Laurent in a cursory inspection; he doesn’t seem at all surprised.

“Granted.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> canon geography? what canon geography? vere and akielos are an ocean apart because i say so. also i'm aiming for weekly updates since that seems to be about the pace that i'm writing, and i'll be adding the necessary tags as i go. 
> 
> comments & kudos are loved! :)


	3. Chapter 3

 

#  _iii._

Laurent is led around once more by the rope collaring his neck. More accurately he is _paraded_ before Damen’s peers like a prized horse recently broken in. Eventually he’s taken from the throne room and along hallways of white stone, each corridor looking the same as the last, until they reach what must be Damen’s rooms. In the front chamber seated on a low reclining couch is a woman with long, curling blond hair and pale, pampered skin. Laurent is beginning to sense a theme.

“Jokaste,” Damen says, tone warm and low. Intimate, as if Laurent isn’t standing right there in the room with them. He supposes a slave is below that kind of notice.

“Damen,” she returns in a sugary voice. Then she steps forward and they’re kissing, his hand already sliding up her thigh along the slit in her dress: a glorified bed sheet secured only by a jeweled belt about the waist, pale swathes of skin revealed from shoulder to ankle. Laurent feels nauseated. Thankfully Jokaste pulls away before Damen can go any further. “And what have you brought back from the North?”

Brightening as he turns to Laurent, Damen introduces him. “A priest from one of their temples. He can speak our language.” Damen turns sideways to gaze at him fondly, gently stroking his cheek. Laurent holds very still, repressing a flinch. “Isn’t he lovely?”

“As if Aphrodite breathed life into him herself,” Jokaste says, but it doesn’t sound like a compliment. She looks him up and down. “What is your name, boy?” Her smile when her eyes settle on his face is as condescending as it is cold.

“Laurent,” he says in carefully pronounced Akielon. “Not _boy_.”

Jokaste laughs as if he’s just performed a trick, but her gaze is assessing. “He’s charming, Damen, even with his sharp tongue.”

Damen chuckles and tugs him closer with the rope, reeling him in like a particularly unwilling fish. “I’m sure I’ll find many ways to put it to use.” He glances back and forth between Laurent and Jokaste, and it seems to occur to him just then that they could almost be twinned. “Perhaps,” Damen says solicitously. “You’d like to make use of his tongue as well.”

Laurent pales. Jokaste’s keen eyes don’t miss the change in his pallor or the sudden the stiffness of his expression.

“You’re frightening the poor thing, Damen,” she says, not sounding at all sorry. “He must be unused to such attention.”

Damen waves a dismissive hand. “He’ll grow used to it in time. They all do.” Those words chill Laurent to the very bone. His heartbeat is a caged thing, beating against his ribs, fluttering in this throat. Damen turns to Laurent then, and his eyes are startlingly genuine. He strokes the backs of his fingers up and down Laurent’s arm, gentling him. “Do not worry, priest. We will not harm you. I promise you will enjoy yourself.”

Laurent acts before he can think, jerking back and snapping, “Don’t touch me!”

To Laurent’s surprise Damen lets out a laugh that seems to fill the whole room. “You are quite shy.” He steps towards him again, and Laurent steps back. Jokaste watches this all without comment.

“I took a vow of celibacy,” Laurent says, aiming for a diplomatic rejection rather than a personal one. “I cannot touch a woman. I never have.”

Damen’s grin is unabashedly wolfish. He takes another step forward. “How about a man?”

Laurent shakes his head, takes another step back. “It would be a sin.”

“Who would know?” Damen’s voice is rich and soft like Laurent’s favorite velvet doublet from childhood. Another step forward.

Laurent swallows hard, takes a step back and bumps into a wall; there’s nowhere left to run. “God would know.”

He’s caged against the wall by Damen’s body. This close he seems even bigger, chiton hiding nothing of the breadth of his shoulders or the heavy curve of his muscles. Damen cups his chin and leans in, but Laurent turns his face away. From the corner of his eye Laurent can see Jokaste making to sit on the low reclining couch once more, fully intending to enjoy the show.

He expects Damen to force him then, expects those large, rough hands on his body, tearing at his clothes. Laurent knows he can survive this, he’s done it before, but it doesn’t stop the way he trembles even as his face remains carefully blank.

Damen’s nose brushes his fine blond hair, and he inhales deeply before whispering, “Fine then.” Laurent shudders at the sudden loss of body heat as Damen steps back, giving Laurent one last lingering look. “Go to bed with your God.”

He turns and crosses over to Jokaste, offering her his hand. She takes it and Laurent watches, hardly daring to breathe, as Damen pulls her to her feet. They disappear further into Damen’s chambers, and it only takes minutes before the noises start up. Laurent figures they must’ve made it to the bedroom.

He slides down the wall until he’s sitting with his knees to his chest, palms pressed together and fingers laced to keep his hands from shaking. Crouched there with their moans echoing off the walls shamelessly, he drowns out the noise the only way he can: he prays.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> O KAY I WAS REALLY NERVOUS ABOUT POSTING THIS CHAPTER FOR MULTIPLE REASONS... also expect me to take artistic liberties with religion in this fic. akielos has its own culture and therefore not everything will be exactly the same as the greeks in terms of how they worship their gods and such. 
> 
> let me know what you think! comments and kudos are welcome. :)


	4. Chapter 4

 

#  _iv._

Adrastus, the royal slave keeper, has a blacksmith fit him with solid gold cuffs and a matching collar. After that he’s given a loincloth of pale blue silk. Servants show him how to wrap it until it’s snug around the hips, then pin a golden lion to the fabric to indicate who he belongs to. Laurent has seen other slaves walking around naked so he supposes he should be grateful that he’s allowed even this much dignity.

After an assessing look up and down his body, Adrastus motions the servants to adorn him with more gold, this time ground down into a fine powder. They dust the tops of his shoulders, the jut of his collarbones, and anywhere else they want to subtly draw the eye. His cheeks are given an artificial flush, his lips rouged to a tempting rose; nothing as bold as the paints used in Vere.

By the time they’re done he’s wearing a small fortune.

 

 

He’s taken to the slave quarters located in the same wing as the rest of Damen’s retinue. The room they've assigned him is small but tidy. The pallet that is to be his bed for the foreseeable future has a tumble of pillows and a few soft blankets. Laurent supposes it's adequate. The door creaks open and another slave enters. He is completely naked with a sweet, open face and a tousle of dark honeyed curls. Not the same pale gold of Laurent’s hair but close enough. Are all of Damen’s slaves _blond_?

“Hello,” the slave says shyly. “I am Erasmus.” At least he doesn’t go to his knees or prostrate himself on the ground.  _Why would he?_ Laurent thinks bitterly,  _I’m just as much of a slave as he is_. “I stay here when Damianos-exalted does not have need of me.” After saying this Erasmus’ cheeks flush a delicate pink. Well, that explains the pallet on the opposite side of the room. It looks relatively untouched, so perhaps Damen calls on Erasmus often. Better him than Laurent. Erasmus smiles and fidgets with one of his cuffs. “You are just as beautiful as the Prince said.”

Laurent eyes him carefully but finds no deceit in his features, no jealousy. He doesn’t know what to make of it. In Vere pets are always vying for attention, smiling with one side of their mouth and scheming with the other. A compliment is never anything but backhanded. Erasmus, by comparison, appears without guile, completely earnest in his admiration even though by all rights Laurent should be his competition.

“Thank you,” Laurent says and hopes Erasmus stops talking.

“Master Adrastus has assigned me to look after you. I will help you with your duties until you adjust.” Erasmus then goes on to explain Laurent’s duties which mostly consist of waiting on Damen, looking pretty for Damen, and being alert to any and all of Damen’s whims, of which there are many. “Master Adrastus has also said you are no longer permitted to cut your hair.” He gestures to the tonsure atop Laurent’s head. “Damianos-exalted would prefer you keep your hair long.” _Like Jokaste_ , Laurent thinks in disgust. The barbarian’s perversions know no bounds.

“Tarchon will teach you dance, song, and recitation.” The absolute last thing Laurent needs is to learn how to entertain these savages—but this is his life until he finds a way home, so he keeps silent and nods his head in understanding. “You are expected in the gardens every afternoon between lunch and dinner to train.” Erasmus gives him another one of those gentle smiles, then steps forward and takes Laurent’s hands in his own. Laurent just barely reigns in the impulse to yank out of his grip. “When I was first brought here I was scared, but the Prince is a kind and generous master,” he says. Laurent says nothing. “Come.” Erasmus, still holding Laurent’s hands, leads him to the door. “I will show you the most pleasing way to pour wine and peel fruit.” Laurent would rather muck the horse stables but he follows Erasmus anyway.

 

  

As it turns out, all of Damen’s slaves are in fact blond and pale save for Isander who has traditional Akielon coloring: nut-brown skin, dark, curling hair, and brown doe eyes fringed with heavy, black lashes. When Laurent stares a beat too long at this outlier, Isander says, simply and sweetly, “Sometimes the Prince likes to watch me with the others.”

“And sometimes the Prince will do more than just watch,” giggles another slave by the name of Lykaios while Isander blushes. Laurent tries very hard not to watch her bare chest shake with laughter. He’s never had an interest in women, but he’s also never been around one quite so… naked. It’s disconcerting.

“Damianos-exalted is sure to love you,” Lykaios says, brushing her fingers against the tips of his hair. Her words and expression are an echo of Erasmus, completely without envy or guile.

“How lucky,” Laurent replies.

Isander sends him a shy glance. “Aphrodite smiles down upon you.”

Laurent deduces that Aphrodite must be some sort of pagan god. Before he can say more Erasmus is by his side, steering him away from the others.

“Tonight you will kneel beside the Prince and serve him,” he says this as if it's some great honor. He must see Laurent’s pinched expression because he adds, “Don't worry. I’ll be there to help you.”  

They reach the entrance to the throne room. Erasmus proceeds, as quiet and unobtrusive as a shadow, to enter the feast and make his way to Damen’s side where he’s seated by his father at the head of the table. Laurent has no such training and, as he follows, every eye turns to him one after another. When Damen finally sees him for the first time since that horrific night in his rooms, he drops his cup of wine. It goes tumbling to the floor in a splash of red liquid, most of which gets on Nikandros sitting next to him. Erasmus is already dabbing carefully at Nikandros’ stained chiton by the time Laurent has crossed the room and joined them. He stands there for a moment before swallowing his pride and slowly sinking to his knees, careful not to displace his loincloth.

“Well, brother,” Kastor says from where he’s seated at the king’s other side, across from Damen. He eyes Laurent like a fresh cut of meat. “You chose well. I never suspected  _that_ was what the priest was hiding under his robes.” Aimeric is kneeling beside Kastor in a mirror of Laurent’s position, completely naked and blushing to the roots of his hair. His hands are fisted and white knuckled where they rest atop his knees. He’s the only one Laurent has seen since the ship. The others must have been sold or taken elsewhere.

Damen places one large hand on the crown of Laurent’s head and strokes carefully over the tiny hairs beginning to grow there. “He is truly an exquisite prize,” he agrees while Nikandros rolls his eyes.

Thankfully that is when King Theomedes interrupts to toast to his sons and the raid’s success before beginning the feast in earnest. The slaves are more or less forgotten after that, darting in and out of the room to bring more wine and more food while others carefully feed their masters or refill their goblets, always close by but essentially invisible. If this were Vere it’d be a good way to get assassinated—but if this were Vere Laurent wouldn’t be a slave.

He carries on dutifully if not enthusiastically, rising out of his kneel to pour more wine into Damen’s cup whenever necessary. It’s exhausting if only because he must focus all his attention on anticipating Damen’s needs before Damen himself becomes aware of them, something Laurent has no interest or inclination for. Thankfully pouring wine is all he’s doing. Erasmus has been generous enough to take on the role of making eyes at Damen and coquettishly placing choice cuts of meat and figs stuffed with almond-honey paste into his mouth.

“You’re not very good at this,” Damen says some time later, drawing Laurent from his thoughts. It’s not a surprising observation; Laurent has better things to do with his time than be a table attendant. He glances up at Damen whose amusement is plain on his face, posture loose from alcohol. Akielons seem to hide nothing of how they feel.

“I didn’t expect to be, Your Highness.” He deliberately uses the Veretian address for royalty instead of the Akielon one Adrastus taught him.

“Call me Damen,” he says, a flirtatious sparkle in his dark eyes.

Laurent gives him a smile, sharp as a blade and far more dangerous. “No.”

Damen laughs and shakes his head; he seems caught between amusement, exasperation, and something hungrier. “Stand up,” he says, gesturing with his hand. “You’re no use with the wine anyway.” Laurent stands while Erasmus quickly moves to take up the wine in his place.

Damen’s hands move to encircle his waist without hesitation, lifting him onto his lap as if he weighs no more than a child. Laurent would like to say he goes gracefully, but truthfully he lands awkwardly on Damen’s thighs and only barely manages to preserve what’s left of his modesty when the flap of his loincloth goes askew. He smooths the fabric back down with a glare, color high on his cheeks from the humiliation of it all.

“Was it worth giving up the gold?” he can't help but ask in a low, scathing voice meant for Damen's ears alone. “Are you satisfied by this? You’d have been better served choosing a piece of treasure and purchasing a whore for the night. At least they’d want your gold if not your company.” He expects to be hit for his cheek, but he doesn’t care. He wants Damen to know that he chose poorly when he chose Laurent, when he plucked him from Acquitart like a _thing_ instead of a person. He will never go quietly into Damen’s arms.

“But I gave up no gold,” Damen says, surprising Laurent into stillness as he tucks a loose lock of hair behind his ear, letting his fingers linger there. His touch is shockingly gentle as he caresses the yellow strands. “It’s all right here.”

For a moment they just stare at each other, then the moment is broken by Nikandros pointedly clearing his throat. Laurent’s awareness comes back in pieces: Erasmus refilling the wine cup, men laughing and boasting about their findings in Vere, the unobtrusive notes of a kithara twining through the room. Turning away from Damen, Laurent sits tense on his thighs and waits for the night to be over.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> i edited this chapter so many times i exhausted myself. therefore i have no witty commentary to provide you, but i can tell you that i love isander and that he's my son.
> 
> as always, comments and kudos are welcome and wanted!


	5. Chapter 5

 

#  _v._

Jokaste isn’t as clever as she thinks she is. Laurent knows she’s leery of him, especially given that his continuous rebuffs only seem to tantalize Damen. It makes sense, in a way. Damen is a prince, the crown prince, and he’s never been denied anything in his life. The other day he overhead Nikandros telling Damen that “mounting one blond is much like mounting another”, and that he should get on with it so he can stop “obsessing over the priest”.

Much to Nikandros' continuing misfortune, Damen seems to prefer his partners willing. All his slaves are certainly eager enough for any sliver of attention; apparently the Prince has a famously wandering eye and none can hold him for long. His slaves must be like toys, taken off the shelf and played with for a bit before being set aside and left to collect dust. Laurent doesn’t plan to be one of them.

Damen may have no intention of forcing anyone into his bed, but Laurent is hardly going to hand out awards for common decency.

 

 

When Laurent next sees Aimeric, it's clear why Damen's slaves clamor in gratitude at his ownership. There are bruises on Aimeric's body and, sometimes, his pretty face. His expression manages to remain impressively antagonistic despite that fact. Laurent can tell that most do not approve of Kastor’s treatment, but they do nothing to stop it either.

As they pass each other in the hallway, Laurent carrying out the menial tasks he’s been assigned while memorizing routes of possible escape, their eyes meet. Laurent feels Aimeric’s gaze move over his pale skin, untouched and unblemished, free of even the faintest love bite. His brows slant down over his eyes, glittering with anger that Laurent has managed to escape a similar fate. Laurent knows that kind of anger intimately from when he was thirteen and had understood for the first time how cruel the world can be. This is how he knows that nothing he can say would make it better. Aimeric shoulders past him as he walks by, knocking Laurent back a step.

Laurent resists the urge to sigh and is about to head out to the gardens for his afternoon lesson when he sees a flash of gold from the corner of his eye. Against his better judgment, he pauses and waits. In the next few seconds Jokaste appears, straightening her dress and combing fingers through her hair. She’s come from the same direction Aimeric has: Kastor’s rooms. From the flush of her skin to the rumpled state of her dress it’s easy to guess what she’s been doing. Interesting.

Filing the information away for later, he makes to leave at the exact moment she looks up. They lock eyes. It really is unnerving to see his own cool blue gaze reflected back at him in her face. Laurent breaks eye contact first and turns on his heel to go. He doesn’t plan to stick around long enough to see Damen and Kastor duel for her hand, but he can’t fault her for ambition.

 

 

A week later it becomes clear that whatever plans Jokaste has for Damen, they do not include Laurent.

 

 

It’s chaos in the palace. Servants scurry along the halls carrying incense, oils, and wine. Laurent manages to find Lykaios and ask her what’s going on. Perhaps the Akielon barbarians are preparing for another raid.

“The priests have declared it an auspicious day,” she says gravely before departing, as if this explains anything at all. Eventually he finds his way to Adrastus who oversees the royal slaves and their activities whenever Damen’s bed and whims are otherwise occupied. Laurent asks him the same question and is met with scorn.

“Foolish boy. We must give a sacrifice to the gods for the safe return of our princes.”

Adrastus informs him that he and the other slaves will be accompanying Damen to the temple with the rest of his retinue, and that it is a privilege he should not take lightly. He tends to say this about most things that involve Damen.

Laurent is ushered to wait with the others. He sits next to Isander, who Laurent has decided is the least annoying, ignoring the boy’s shy glances in his direction. Nearby Erasmus and Lykaios chat about beauty regimes to help keep their skin light and their hair fair. After a few moments mulling over the strangeness of these pagans, Laurent turns to Isander and asks, “Why do you spill blood for your gods?”

Isander blinks long lashes at him. “Do you not give sacrifices to your gods?”

“There is only one God,” Laurent says automatically, having heard it everyday for most of his life. “And most people tithe to him." Then, realizing Isander will not understand this, he clarifies, "They give riches to the church.”

This seems to perplex Isander further. “Is your God very poor?”

The question startles a breathless laugh from him, and it dawns on Laurent that it's the first time he's smiled since coming here.

Isander looks pleased with himself.

 

 

They are guided to Damen’s contingent where it’s gathered in the courtyard alongside the rest of the pending procession. They're directed to stand at the very back.

Jokaste emerges from the crowd a moment later and stops beside Damen. With him at her side, she looks like a queen. She places a hand on Damen’s bicep with the ease of familiarity, tip toeing to murmur something in his ear, before striding over to kneel before the king. There is a priest standing beside Theomedes dressed in dark robes, face painted with strange, curling red designs. He regards Jokaste with little more than a cursory glance.

“Exalted,” she says, waiting for his leave before continuing. “I have prayed to the gods every night for Prince Damianos’ safe return and every night since to thank them.” She sounds heartfelt, if a bit heavy-handed. “The night before last, Hermes visited my dreams with a message.” She pauses until the anticipation nears its breaking point, then continues, “I’ve seen what they demand in return for their generosity. A beauty from the foreign lands where Akielos triumphed.” Here she smiles and lifts her head, unerringly finding Laurent in the crowd. “A virgin,” she adds, which has people tittering and directing disbelieving looks at Damen, who is quite a whore, “untouched by mortal men.”

Damen is frowning at Jokaste. Whether it’s for bringing into question his virility or giving away his slave without consulting him first, Laurent can’t tell. Still, with everyone waiting on his answer, he says truthfully, “I have not touched him. He’s taken vows to lie with no man or woman.”

King Theomedes looks between Damen, him, and Jokaste with shrewd eyes. Laurent doesn’t doubt that he knows exactly what Jokaste is trying to do here, but it’s clearly of no consequence to him. What’s the life of one slave when Damen has so many others? For all Jokaste may or may not be lying, these pagan gods demand blood and Laurent is ripe for the slaughter.

“Look at his face,” Jokaste says as she stands; clearly, she will not stop until she has his head. People crowd closer to get a better look at him, whispering to each other. “Is he not worthy?”

The priest turns and regards him with eyes so dark they appear black, then bows his head in agreement. “He is undoubtedly favored by the gods.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> .......... well.


	6. Chapter 6

 

#  _vi._

Everything is a blur of sound and movement as he’s whisked away from the courtyard by a group of servants. He is bathed meticulously, then rubbed in fragrant oils. He is clothed in a robe of soft white cotton as they weave flowers through his hair. His neck is looped with garlands, his wrists bound with rope. He is given sweet, ceremonial wine and forced to drink until his lips are stained with it, then brought back to the procession. This time he is made to stand at the front alongside the King and the priest.

As they make their way through the streets towards the temple, Laurent wonders if this is how Jesus felt walking to the cross, but then they’d condemned Jesus as he’d moved through the streets. The Akielons, on the other hand, are exultant, lining the dirt road and cheering, throwing flowers as if Laurent is walking to his wedding rather than his funeral. Children reach out in an attempt to touch his robe even as their parents yank them back. The priest chants and waves a smudge stick back and forth, trailing white, fragrant smoke. The temple in the distance grows larger and larger with every step forward.

Finally, just as the sky begins to drizzle, he is led up marble stairs into the belly of the temple, round columns cutting the open air between roof and floor. The procession stops somewhere behind him as Laurent is shoved further inside until he stands before an altar. A priest approaches with a ceremonial knife, and the glint of its polished edge is enough to jolt Laurent from his stupor. As the shock recedes anger takes its place, but at who he can’t be certain. God, for abandoning him one time too many? His uncle, for orphaning him in his own kingdom? Damen, for spiriting him away to this barbaric place? Jokaste, for bringing him here like a lamb to slaughter?

A handful of priests all dressed in identical dark robes wrestle him onto the altar and hold him down. The priest with the knife, seemingly the one in charge, stares at him solemnly with kohl smudged eyes and asks, “Have you any last words?”

“In my religion,” Laurent says, eyeing the blade poised above his throat. “It is customary to confess before we go see our God.”

Kastor, who stands at the front of the gathered crowd alongside Damen and his father, scoffs at this. “Just kill him! Who cares about his false god?”

“He deserves final words,” Damen insists. His lips, normally quirked in something of a perpetual grin, are turned down at the corners. He’s the only one who shows a hint of remorse over the fact that Laurent will die.

“He is nothing but a slave.”

“The gods want him. Who are you to determine his worth?”

At Damen’s words, something ugly twists Kastor’s face. “Who am I? Just because you’re the heir—”

“Enough,” says Theomedes. His sons fall silent at once, though Kastor’s glare doesn’t wane. Theomedes turns his eyes to Laurent’s prone form, laid across the obsidian slab that will serve as his deathbed, and says, “Say your final words, boy.”

Laurent’s heart beats so hard he can see it moving the thin fabric over his chest. “I confess,” he says, unwillingly noting how different this open air temple is to the enclosed space of a confessional. He pauses until it's fallen so silent that each drop of rain can be heard hitting the roof above them. The sound blends into one continuous, foreboding hum. What comes next will be a gamble: they might still kill him in spite of anything he says. His life seems as a coin flipped from God's hand, turning through the air, uncertain of whether it will land on life or death. “I am not a virgin. To send me to your gods would be an insult.”

Whispers swell throughout the temple. Damen looks flabbergasted by this revelation, his only notion of Laurent his frigidity and rejection.

“Lies!” Jokaste hisses. She pushes her way through the crowd to the very front and stands beside Kastor. “He seeks to cheat death.”

“It is no lie.” Though Laurent wishes it were. He will never escape the truth of it. Still, he smiles at Jokaste, the soft curve of his lips belying the viciousness underneath. “I can describe the way he fucked me,” he adds sweetly, “if you want.”

Jokaste’s eyes narrow. For a drawn out moment no one says anything, and Laurent wonders if he really _will_ have to describe it. The knife rests against his throat as the priest weighs the worth of his life against the worth of his words. Sensing the priest’s hesitation, Jokaste adds in a sensuous voice, “It is folly to believe the words of a slave over the desire of a god.”

The priest shares a look with the other two holding him down, each face painted nearly identical to the last, before saying, “Hold him steady.”

He brings the knife up above Laurent’s head with a swift motion of his arm, and Laurent thrashes like a caged animal. He is not scared, he is  _furious_. He will not go to his death like this, on Akielon soil, martyred for foreign gods. Just as the priest begins his downward swing, Laurent screams “ _stop_ ”, voice raw like the word has been torn from his chest. The crash of thunder that follows is so loud it shakes the foundations of the temple. Summer storms aren’t uncommon in Akielos, but immediately people are turning to each other with wide eyes, the name “Zeus” on their lips. Laurent doesn’t know what it means, but the priest has taken a step back and his face is ashen beneath the paint.

“We can no longer accept this sacrifice,” the priest proclaims to the murmuring crowd. Outside the storm rages with all the short-lived ferocity of the season. Slowly regaining his composure, he adds, “But we cannot leave the gods empty handed.”

“I will sacrifice three slaves who have not yet had their First Night,” Damen speaks up, being useful for once, “to give thanks to the gods and to placate them.”

The priest considers this before nodding his acceptance of the exchange. “So be it.”

A dizzying rush of relief floods him, and Laurent allows himself to go slightly limp on the altar. So he will live, but at the cost of three others. Though the blood spilled will be from no one he knows, it is on his hands nonetheless. Maybe it will be a more merciful fate to die before being used the way Laurent has been used—by men who are too powerful to stop.

Laurent is released and allowed to sit up. The priest cuts his hands free. Turning towards the crowd, Laurent massages his wrists and looks out over the sea of faces. At the very front, Theomedes watches Laurent with a regard that was not there previously. Jokaste’s face appears serene as a winter lake, but the tightness at the corners of her mouth betray her anger. Kastor mostly just looks bored.

When Laurent’s eyes finally turn to Damen, it’s to the sight of him approaching the altar. He pauses beside it and offers his hand to help Laurent down, as if Laurent is a lady who might swoon after going through such a trial. The gesture is entirely inappropriate for a man, much less a slave. Laurent looks up into Damen’s open expression and wants to hurt him. He thinks about how easy it would be, thinks about the ceremonial knife the priest holds within reach—but, for now, Damen is not the enemy.

He locks eyes with Jokaste as he takes Damen's hand. He was raised in the court of Arles, the vipers’ pit. He’s dealt with minds far greater than Jokaste’s.

She's made a mistake in this: He is not a lamb. He is a snake.

Laurent slides off the altar in one smooth motion, body brushing down Damen’s front, cotton robe rucking up along his legs as a result. The Prince glances down and inhales sharply. Laurent looks up at Damen from under golden lashes, fingers dragging across Damen's broad palm as he pulls his hand away.

“It seems your gods have seen fit to keep me with you.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> that road to el dorado moment though. 
> 
> this chapter was a struggle™ but here's an early update. thanks for all the support last chapter; i loved reading your comments!


	7. Chapter 7

 

#  _vii._

Laurent accompanies the sacrificial procession a few days later. This early in the morning the world still feels quiet, mist rolling in from the sea, keeping the air pleasantly cool. The three slaves at the front of the procession only look a few years younger than Laurent, still making their last steps towards manhood, limbs transitioning from coltish to graceful, faces fresh with youth. They have flowers in their hair and garlands around their neck. Their wrists are not bound with rope.

"They would most likely have become bath boys or table attendants..." Erasmus says, as if trying to comfort him, while they walk side by side up the steps into Zeus' temple. "This is better for them. It's a great honor to serve the gods."

Laurent doesn't like showing weakness, but as each boy goes willingly to lie on the altar and the priest lifts the knife, he looks away.

 

 

Rumors of his beauty spread, an unexpected consequence of Jokaste’s failed plot to kill him. Everywhere he walks gazes follow, some admiring and others envious. The gossip has managed to elevate him to near mythic proportions among the lesser nobles and servants. He is, in their words, an unrivaled beauty from foreign lands snatched by their crown prince and coveted by even the gods. And, as with all rumors, they tumble one into another until fiction becomes more important than fact. They become so outlandish that one day he hears a couple of slaves in training whispering that he is, in fact, the half mortal son of a goddess.

Damen is inordinately pleased by this. He is, after all, the man who handpicked such a slave, who owns the type of beauty the gods look down on with longing; Laurent’s virtues reflect the quality of his master. As a result, he doesn’t hesitate to shower Laurent with both attention and gifts, neither of which Laurent want.

Beauty, he’s learned, is highly prized in Akielon culture. At first he’d thought them unable to appreciate or understand art. Their architecture is simple, their clothes plain, their bodies unadorned. In comparison to Vere’s arches and spirals, its stained glass churches and riots of silk, what could Akielos claim of beauty? But slowly he’d come to understand.

Beauty in Akielos is the golden tones of a sunset splashing across the white marble of the palace, a slave’s naked body unobstructed by paints or laces, the clean lines of leather skirted soldiers marching in flawless formation. Akielons do not seek to outdo the beauty of the world by shaping it in their own image, but rather work to perfect what the gods have already seen fit to give them.

 

 

In another life Laurent would not put up with Damen’s blatant attempts at wooing him to his bed. In another life he’d whip him for his insolence. In this life, however, his survival is tied to the brute. Therefore it falls to Laurent to make sure he comes to no harm, and Jokaste has not proved herself harmless.

 

 

Wrangling Damen proves to be exceptionally easy. For all his authority and entitlement, Damen is surprisingly eager to please and seems happy enough to take it slow. He has no want for an unwilling partner, and Laurent’s new, tentative acceptance of his attentions contents him—for now. Damen leans towards each barely-there smile and lingering glance like a flower finding sunlight. It’s pathetic, really, how Damen falls into infatuation without reservation or thought. Left to his own devices, the kingdom would be Jokaste’s within a week.

“What can I give you?” Damen asks one day. Laurent is in the gardens beneath the cool shade of a tree with the gospel open on his lap.

Summer in Akielos is unbearable, and, unlike Erasmus and Lykaios who avoid the sun to keep their skin from browning, Laurent avoids it out of necessity. The places on palace grounds where he can find both privacy and shade are scarce. Damen has seen fit to invade each of them. He sprawls in the grass beside Laurent, torso dappled in the golden flecks that sneak through the leaves while his lower body languishes in the sunshine. He has his arms pillowed beneath his head, and the pull of the fabric draped over his shoulder has his chiton hiking precariously high on his thighs. His legs are thick like the rest of him, glossy brown and knotted with muscle, laced to the knee in leather sandals. Laurent pointedly does not look at him as he continues reading, finger tracing left to right along the carefully penned Latin.

Damen turns on his side, propping himself up on one arm to better see Laurent; his bicep is approximately the size of a baby's head. “Shall I have servants weave flowers through your hair?” he continues, earning him a brief, withering glance from Laurent. He’s already had flowers weaved into his hair while they’d been preparing to slit his throat, and it is not an experience he’s looking to repeat. The twist of Damen’s lips is wry as he corrects himself. “Perhaps not flowers. Pearls then? Sapphires, to match your eyes?”

Laurent pointedly closes his book before giving Damen a long, assessing look. Damen gazes back, un-self-conscious. Finally Laurent shifts until his face is close to Damen’s, hair swinging forward to brush the Prince’s cheek, voice lowering to something approaching intimate.

“You really want to know what I want?” Laurent’s eyes are two limpid pools, their frigid clarity untainted by the oppressive summer heat.

“Yes,” Damen says, a breathless quality to his voice, as if he’s afraid to disturb the moment with even the slightest sound.

Laurent’s lips curl in a smile. “Freedom, from you and this place.”

For a moment Damen is speechless, then his face crumples into a look of vexation. He reaches out to touch Laurent’s cheek, but Laurent pulls away and raises one imperious eyebrow.

“So nothing for your hair,” he says ruefully. When Laurent's expression doesn’t soften, he adds, “The gods delivered you to me that day, Laurent. It’s my right to have you and keep you. To the victors go the spoils; it is the way of things. Do not take it personally.”

“Is that what you think your raid was, a victory?”

“What else would it be?”

Laurent looks away with a flicker of golden lashes and then pushes himself to stand, smoothing the fabric at his hips with the same fastidiousness that permeates his every gesture. He ignores Damen’s wandering gaze along the profile of his legs and, without so much as a backwards glance, walks away.

 

 

It is truly regrettable to see him go, but he has such a lovely backside that Damen can do little more than watch it happen. He groans and collapses back onto the grass, wondering what he said wrong. Had he not offered Laurent every comfort, every affection, every trinket he could possibly think of? Others Damen had wooed were not so stubborn or perplexing. Surely the gods had gotten the better end of the bargain, leaving such a contrary creature with Damen.

Nikandros finds him some time later, lying there with a pensive frown. Nikandros knows there is only one reason for such an expression on his prince’s face.

“I don’t know why you bother, old friend,” Nikandros sighs, taking a seat where Laurent had been. The view is far less pleasing, but the company much better.

“He is baffling, Nik. I don’t understand him.”

Nikandros just nods. He is wearing the same expression he always does when Damen comes to him with blond-haired troubles.

“That is the way with foreigners.” Rubbing a hand along his bearded jaw, he adds, “If you are really so set on having a blond boy, why not bed Erasmus? He is as sweet and yielding as a peach.”

“I’ve already bedded Erasmus many times, and he is nothing like Laurent. It would not be the same,” Damen says.

Nikandros gives him a doubtful look. “You don’t believe the rumors that the priest is descended from a god, do you?”

“Of course not,” Damen says, though with Laurent’s ivory likeness to Akielon statues, he would not be surprised if he were the myth of Pygmalion come to life. “But having the people believe it doesn’t hurt my image.”

Nikandros rolls his eyes. “You realize you only want him because he denies you.”

Damen is not quite sure of that, but he knows better than to tell that to Nikandros.

“Perhaps.”

 

 

When Laurent next approaches him it is with a coy look in his eyes. This amuses Damen, who knows Laurent to not have a single modest bone in his body. He is far from a shrinking violet.

“I have thought of something you can give me,” he says casually, limbs arranged with a grace that seems both inherent to his perfect proportions and learned, though Damen can’t say why because it does not seem the kind of thing a priest would need to know.

“And would it please you?” Damen asks, willing to humor him. He has learned that Laurent is like a cat, and that he will come around in his own time or not at all. Rushing him will only earn the sharpness of his claws.

“Very much.” On his lips is a smile Damen knows to be completely manufactured, but that is so lovely he’s taken in all the same. Laurent seems to know this as well.

“What would you have me give you?” He’s admittedly curious. What could the recalcitrant Laurent possibly want?

“I want you to teach me how to fight.”

A pause in which Damen studies Laurent from the tips of his bare toes to top of his blond head, then back again. He laughs. “What use could you have for fighting?”

If Laurent means to find a way to hurt him, Damen is not worried. He is one of Akielos’ fiercest warriors and has been lauded as the best of his generation. If the slave wants to get rid of him, Damen can think of much better ways Laurent could drive him to distraction before dealing a fatal blow.

“I’d like to be able to protect myself,” Laurent says, and were it not for the flex of his jaw he would seem perfectly composed.

“You are safer than nearly anyone else in Akielos,” Damen assures him. No one would dare touch what Damen has claimed as his.

Now Laurent is looking at him like he’s stupid. He does that a lot.

Laurent crosses his arms over his chest which, though pretty and slender and milk-white, is rather scrawny. “Will you teach me or not?”

Damen thinks for a moment. He has the spare time now that they won’t raid for several more weeks if not months, and he wouldn’t mind watching Laurent work up a sweat. He can’t fuck him, not yet, so fighting seems an intriguing alternative. Adrastus would lose his mind if he knew Damen planned to teach a slave how to wield a sword, but Laurent is already an anomaly, and he can’t deny that his blood rushes at the thought of Laurent fighting him, of watching that lovely body strain and sweat and flex.

“Alright,” Damen says. “I will teach you.” There’s a new light in Laurent’s eyes at his answer, and Damen knows that he’s made the right choice to indulge his slave in this. “We start tomorrow morning. Don’t be late.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> so damen's pov strong-armed its way into this chapter. i might start updating more frequently than once a week if i can, but i make no promises.
> 
> comments and kudos are loved!


	8. Chapter 8

 

#  _viii._

Laurent weighs the sword in his hand carefully. It’s been a long time since he’s wielded one, and he’d only been a child then. This sword is for a man, and it’s heavier than Laurent expects. Damen lets him get a feel for it before swapping it for a wooden practice sword.

They are outside in the training area, the sky slightly overcast due to the early hour, but the dirt warm beneath their feet all the same. Laurent thinks it’s ridiculous that he should wield a sword while dressed like a whore, but begrudgingly acknowledges that it’s probably half the incentive for Damen teaching him in the first place. The Prince takes a perverse amount of pleasure in seeing Laurent disheveled.

To make matters worse, they are not alone. Other soldiers stand a little ways off, practicing in pairs, aiming glances in their direction when they think Damen is not paying attention. Laurent can’t tell if they’re ogling him or the Prince more.

“Now,” Damen says, walking around him in a slow circle. His gait is that of a predator, and Laurent is reminded of the first time they met, the ease with which Damen held a knife like it was an extension of his own arm. “Your stance.” He kicks Laurent’s legs apart, completely unnecessarily, and Laurent grits his teeth to keep from lashing out in response. “Keep your feet shoulder width apart, knees slightly bent, leading foot forward.”

As Laurent adjusts Damen comes closer, pressing against his back until Laurent can feel the exhale of his words while he continues instructing him. His hands come up to guide Laurent’s arms into place. The surrounding soldiers have given up the pretense of practice and are watching the two of them, not sure what’s about to happen: a fight or a fuck.

“Don’t grip the hilt too tight,” Damen murmurs. Laurent shouldn’t be surprised Damen has gone for such low hanging fruit when it comes to flirtation: fighting, fucking, and providing shade on particularly sunny days seem to be his only talents. Damen’s fingers skim over his skin, the calloused touch of them causing the fine hair on Laurent’s arms to rise. Gradually, Laurent loosens his grip on the wooden sword despite all instinct screaming at him to hold it as tight as humanly possible. “Good,” Damen’s voice is saturated with the deep, honeyed tone he directs at Erasmus when the slave does something that pleases him. It reminds him, eerily, of his uncle when he’d watch Laurent sink to his knees, voice warm where his eyes were cold: _“very good, nephew”_ he’d say. The sound of it fills Laurent with violence.

He whirls around and jabs the end of the wooden sword into Damen’s pectoral, the one uncovered by the cloth of his chiton. The tip is too blunt to cut but not too blunt to bruise.

“Enough of this,” he hisses. From the corner of his eye, he can see the young Akielon soldiers’ shock at the way Laurent is treating their prince. “I already know the basics. I’ll learn more by sparring with an opponent.”

Damen looks at him dubiously, the same expression he wore when Laurent first asked to be trained. “You know the basics?” There’s an emphasis on the ‘you’ that makes Laurent bristle. He knows what he looks like, knows that living a scholar’s life in the monastery has lent his body to slenderness more than strength. His mind, however, is as sharp as a finely honed blade. Damen would do well to remember that he is never truly unarmed because of it.

He takes a moment to stare Damen down, annoyed that he has to look up at him from this close. Laurent then deliberately steps back and falls into a textbook Veretian sword fighting stance he’d learned as a boy. He’d watched Auguste go through drills every morning: practicing his thrusts on invisible opponents, then sparring with real ones, always falling back into that same starting stance with each new fight. At the time he’d been too young to participate, but he’d dogged Auguste’s steps anyway.

“I had an older brother,” Laurent says, as if it doesn’t cost him anything. “I watched him practice nearly everyday.” Or more accurately whenever Laurent could sneak away from his lessons, which he had a talent for, being both small and clever. “He was good.” Laurent smiles, small but true, and meets Damen’s eyes. “Even better than you.” No one in Laurent’s mind could eclipse his golden older brother, not even Damen who looks like he emerged from the womb fully formed with a shield in one hand and a sword in the other.

“Ah, but you haven't seen me fight yet,” Damen says, flipping the wooden practice sword in his hand with casual arrogance.

Laurent lifts one imperious brow and says, “Then show me.” Sensing Damen’s hesitance, he adds, “If you’re not a coward.”

“Don’t regret those words, priest,” Damen says with a slow grin. Contrary to popular belief, Laurent has not overestimated himself. He knows he’ll be walking away from this with bruises on his body as well as his pride, but it’s worth it if only he can hit Damen back for once.

They circle each other, Damen’s stance mocking in its sloppiness.

“Well, come on then.” Damen gestures him forward with a wave of his sword. “Attack me.”

There’s nothing for it. Laurent steps forward and swings. Damen easily parries, then drives him back. Each movement of his arm feels awkward and clumsy, and Laurent knows Damen could disarm him at any time. Instead he’s toying with him as a cat would a mouse, drawing out his humiliation. Laurent can guess why. He knows what he must look like right now, frustrated to the point of anger and flushed from cheeks to chest.

On Damen’s next strike Laurent blocks, then pretends to stumble and fall under the force of it. He lands in the dirt, fingers digging furrows in the earth as he curls his hand into a fist. Damen, clearly trying to hold back laughter at Laurent’s blunder, graciously moves to help him stand when Laurent flings the dirt from his fist right into Damen’s eyes. The Prince curses—an Akielon word Laurent doesn’t know—as Laurent uses his legs to sweep Damen’s feet out from under him. Springing to his feet, Laurent stands over the Prince, looking down at him for the first time since they’ve met. Laurent quite likes the view from here.

When Damen finally wipes the dirt from his eyes, his expression is furious. Laurent has never seen him truly angry until now. It’s admittedly terrifying, but he doesn’t step back even as Damen sits up.

“Is this how it’s done where you’re from?” Damen surges to his feet and steps forward until he’s chest to chest with Laurent, blocking out the sun with his stature. They glare at each other. “Not just cowardly, but dishonorable too.”

“No fight is ever fair,” Laurent says in a low voice, tone accusing. “Someone is always stronger.”

For a moment they just stare at each other, and it’s like they’re back at the feast so many nights ago, sounds fading around them until all Laurent can hear is the blood rushing from his heart to his head. Damen’s eyes are dark enough to swallow him whole. He wonders if this will be the thing that breaks Damen’s veneer of civility, revealing the animal beneath. After all, he has no reason to respect Laurent's religious oath now that he knows the truth.

“Damen,” Nikandros stands outside the ring. Damen and Laurent both turn towards him, startled out of their staring match. “The King is looking for you.”

Damen sighs and runs a hand through his hair, some of the tension leaving his shoulders. He gives Nikandros a short nod. “I’ll be right there.” Turning back to Laurent, he says, “You’re right. Someone is always stronger, but strength doesn’t guarantee victory.” Something wry slips into his expression, no doubt recalling how Laurent had shamelessly thrown dirt in his face to secure such a win, but, for all his outward appearance of amusement, a certain amount of anger still lingers in his eyes. Laurent waits, body tensed and mind racing, as he contemplates what Damen might do to him for his insolence. He should not have made a fool of Damen in front of these men, but Laurent has never been known to make smart decisions when angry. Damen, clearly sensing his unease, lets the tension draw out to its breaking point before leaning down so that his mouth is poised beside Laurent’s ear. “Next time,” he whispers. “I won’t go so easy on you, _sweetheart_.” Laurent shivers.

Straightening up, Damen gestures at one of the young soldiers who had been watching and the boy comes running, dark curls bouncing against his forehead. “Pallas will teach you for today.”

Laurent hears it for what it is—a dismissal—and, though he hates himself for it, he can’t help but feel begrudgingly grateful. Damen has every reason to punish him or, at the very least, put an end to his lessons. And while he isn’t so soft as to let the insult pass unnoticed, he’s letting Laurent off with a warning.

Perhaps, Laurent thinks, perhaps he is not _all_ bad.

“I,” Laurent says haltingly before Damen can walk away. He purses his lips, thinks about how he’s supposed to be gainingthe Prince's confidence, not pushing him away. “I’m sorry,” Each word is spoken as if it leaves a bad taste in his mouth, “about before.”

Damen's lips quirk in that fond way of his, and he places the palm of his hand on the crown of Laurent’s head, something that is quickly becoming a habit. For just a moment, the gesture reminds him of Auguste. “I’ll see you at dinner, priest.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> G UYS... WE ARE GETTING SO CLOSE TO THE GOOD STUFF... also i don't know anything about sword fighting... so, um, sorry? i tried.
> 
> as always, comments and kudos are appreciated!


	9. Chapter 9

 

#  _ix._

Laurent has slyly recruited Isander into his machinations, not that Isander realizes it of course. He probably should feel guilty about using the slave’s fledgling attraction to him, but Laurent has little in the way of allies in Akielos and he’ll take what he can get.

“I heard them whispering earlier,” Isander says when they’re out in the gardens, sitting side by side beneath Laurent’s favorite tree. “The night of the festival, they’ll meet in Kastor’s chambers.”

Laurent rewards him with a smile.

 

 

Thanks to swordsmanship training, he now sports the bruises Aimeric disdained him for lacking. It’s something of an open secret; those who visit the training grounds early in the morning have seen him practicing with Damen, but do not speak of it. Perhaps they fear the consequences if Damen finds out they’ve gossiped about Laurent’s unorthodox teachings, or perhaps they just respect Damen enough to keep his business private.

The rest of the court assumes Laurent is getting thoroughly fucked by their prince as he’s always seen parting ways with Damen disheveled and sweaty. Jokaste is absolutely seething at this development. She hasn’t visited Damen’s rooms in days.

 

 

“Jokaste refuses to see me,” Damen sighs. He’s resting his head in Laurent’s lap, an intimacy that Laurent tolerates with a stiff back even as his fingers sift through Damen’s soft, curling hair.

“Perhaps you’ll see her at the festival” Laurent says mildly, as if he won’t be making sure of that personally.

“Perhaps,” Damen agrees. He reaches up and catches Laurent’s hand, pulling it from his hair and down onto his chest where he can see it. The contrast between their skin is startling, Damen’s a rich bronze where Laurent’s is so pale you can see tracings of blue beneath. “Will you come with me?”

Laurent blinks. “Slaves aren’t allowed at the festival,” he says. Never mind his plan to disguise himself and lure Damen away from the festivities. From there he'll guide him to Kastor’s room where, ideally, he’ll find the bastard and Jokaste in bed together.  

“As my attendant,” Damen amends. Laurent unwillingly feels a pang of bitter disappointment.

“Ah,” he says.

“But secretly as my guest.” Damen squeezes his hand. Laurent’s fingers are limp with surprise in Damen’s hold, but the Prince carries on as though he doesn’t notice. “Let me show you my culture. Then you’ll come to see we are not all as horrible as you think.”

Laurent hesitates. Attending the festival as Damen’s guest _is_ much easier than sneaking in and trying to find him amidst the celebration. This way all he’ll need to do is lead Damen to Kastor and Jokaste once the night is through.

He squeezes Damen’s hand back. “Alright.”

 

 

The preparations for the festival are even more rigorous than they’d been for the sacrifice. Between his sword fighting practice in the morning, his chores midday, and his lessons in the afternoon with Tarchon, Laurent hardly has time to plot for all eventualities when it comes to attending the festival with Damen.

When Laurent collapses onto his pallet at night, it’s to the sight of Erasmus’ back and the quiet sound of his breathing. He hasn’t been called on by Damen for a while, something Erasmus seems disappointed by. Laurent has a fair idea why. Perhaps now though, Erasmus will finally work up the courage to speak to that other slave boy of Kastor’s he’s so obviously smitten with.

 

 

The festival begins with a sacrifice. Luckily, this time, it's not of the human variety. A cow’s throat is slit, and it does not fight as it goes to its death; this, apparently, is a good omen. After the blood is collected into bowls of bronze and gold, the priests dip their fingers in and flick it out over the crowd who receive it with closed eyes and up-turned faces. Music starts up and fires are lit as the sun begins to dip below the horizon.

The priests set the bowls down on the altar after the cow is removed. Damen leads them over to it and carefully dips his fingers into the red liquid. Turning his eyes to Laurent’s face, Damen slowly drags his wet fingertips over Laurent’s temple and down the curve of his cheek, leaving crimson streaks behind. Laurent goes very still and fights not to flinch or immediately wipe away the blood. He tries to think of it like baptism, like being anointed with oil.

Still not taking his eyes from Laurent’s face, Damen takes Laurent’s hand in his and guides his fingers to the bowl as well. Laurent is horrified by the sensation of liquid warmth encasing his fingertips, but also oddly thrilled by the savageness of it all. This is everything he was taught to stay away from by Father Herode, who’d warned them about pagans and their wicked ways. In this moment, Laurent recalls vividly the Lord’s prayer: ... _And lead us not into temptation... but deliver us from evil..._

His heart beats fast in his chest as Damen brings his hand up to his own face.

“Like this,” he says, closing his eyes as he presses Laurent’s fingertips to his forehead. Laurent traces downwards along the slope of Damen’s nose where there’s a slight bump where he must have broken it at some point, then lower into the dip of his cupid’s bow and over his soft, lush mouth, his strong chin. His lashes are thick and dark against his cheeks. When Laurent pulls his hand away, his breathing is unsteady.

For all people may extol the virtues of his beauty, in this moment Laurent finds that Damen is far more beautiful. He's larger than life and unmistakably powerful, with blood on his face and the sun setting behind him, showering him in tones of gold. Damen looks every inch a warrior god.

The Prince opens his eyes then, lips curving up into a devastating smile. “Now,” he says, taking Laurent’s hand once more and leading him towards the festivities. “We drink.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> early update because this chapter is short and mostly a set up for the next chapter. are y'all ready for this festival? :))) 'cause i am.


	10. Chapter 10

 

#  _x._

Laurent is idly nursing a cup filled with sweet wine—popular among Akielon women—when Damen shoves another tumbler in front of him.

“Here,” Damen says, delighted as a child with a new toy. “Try it.”

Laurent purses his lips. “I don’t drink.”

Damen quirks an eyebrow. “Another one of your God’s rules?”

When Laurent doesn’t respond, Damen presses the lip of the cup insistently to his mouth. “Just a sip.”

Laurent wonders if this is how it will always be: Damen wringing more and more concessions from him, chipping away at his pride until there’s nothing left. Still, he is curious. Until now, the only alcohol he’d been familiar with was wine from the Eucharist and whatever his uncle plied him with. Reluctantly, Laurent parts his lips. Damen tips the cup carefully until liquid spills into Laurent’s open mouth. True to his word, Damen takes the tumbler away before he can ingest too much. The flavor is strong enough to make his eyes water.

“What is that?” Laurent asks, disgust plain on his face. Damen laughs and it makes Laurent feel very warm. Must be the burn of the alcohol.  

“Griva.”

“It tastes like poison,” Laurent says even as he plucks the cup from Damen’s hand and drinks more—this time making sure to keep the sour look from his face at the rasping taste of it—while his eyes wander to his surroundings. Around a nearby fire pit, women undo the upper part of their clothing, going bare breasted as they dance to the music threading the air. Others talk and tell stories, reciting myths and legends from memory while their listeners randomly chime in, adding their own details. A little further away some men are setting up an impromptu wrestling match, undoing their chitons and oiling up their naked bodies. Laurent averts his eyes and takes a deeper pull of the griva.

“So,” he says, allowing Damen to lead him to one of the tables piled high with food. They sit on the bench seat, Laurent straddling it so that he’s facing Damen. “Who are we celebrating?” Damen smiles at the use of the word ‘we’.

“Athena.”

Laurent takes another sip of his drink. “Who is that?”

“Zeus’ daughter.”

“Ah,” Laurent says, as if he knew that already. “And Zeus is the one who saved me at the temple.”

Damen reaches forward to tuck a wayward lock of hair behind his ear. Laurent allows it. “He must have heard my prayers.”

“So Zeus is the god of thunder, and Athena is…?”

“The goddess of wisdom.”

“Not your patron then.”

“Does your sharp tongue never cease?” Damen shoves him playfully, and Laurent very nearly returns the gesture. The griva must be stronger than he first thought. He’s only halfway through the cup and he is already starting to feel warm and weightless in half the time it took the sweet wine. “She sprouted from Zeus’ head, fully formed.”

Laurent drinks more. “Sounds painful.”

“Were you like that?” Damen adds, voice taking on a new quality Laurent can’t place. The warm glow of the flames is reflected in Damen’s eyes.

“What do you mean?”

A boyish grin lights Damen’s face, and he leans even closer. Laurent should feel uncomfortable, but he doesn’t.

“Did you emerge fully formed from the sea, riding the foam to shore?”

Laurent smiles, a bit charmed. “Is that another one of your myths?”

“It is.”

A blush unwillingly warms Laurent’s cheeks. “I’m not a demigod, you know.” His words feel uncharacteristically clumsy as they spill out. “It’s just gossip. Besides, those don’t exist.”

“Then how about in your religion? Are there no such beings?”

Laurent sets his now-empty cup down and thinks about that for a minute. Damen is so close now, their heads bent together, foreheads almost touching. When did that happen?

“Prophets, maybe, or saints.”

“What is a saint?”

Laurent smiles. “Someone very holy or close to god.”

Damen runs the knuckle of his index finger gently down Laurent’s cheek. “As a priest, you are close to your God. Does that make you a saint?”

Laurent can’t look away from Damen’s eyes; it’s like he’s being sucked in by their gravity. The way he feels right now is the farthest thing from holy.

“No,” Laurent whispers. “I’m not a saint.”

“Laurent,” Damen says, and there’s a longing in his voice that’s echoed in Laurent’s chest. “May I kiss you?”

Maybe it’s the alcohol, or the infectious mood of the festival. Maybe it’s just the way Damen is looking at him, painfully earnest, but Laurent says, “Yes.”

How many times has Laurent thought of this as a boy? Of sneaking off with one of his brothers from the monastery and finding a secluded corner, the smell of parchment and ink permeating the air, the soft press of lips in contrast to the scratchy press of robes.

This is everything and nothing like that. There is Damen’s lips, which are as soft and full as Laurent imagined a mouth to be, but no fumbling hands or awkward laughter. There is only Damen’s overwhelming skill, his ability to make Laurent feel boneless and flush with just the movement of his mouth. His hand cradles Laurent’s neck, and each slow swipe of Damen’s thumb over his nape has him shivering. Laurent digs his nails into Damen’s shoulders, parting his lips for more. Damen’s tongue is hot as it slides into his mouth, and he tastes like poison, like griva, like every secret sin he’s ever thought about alone at night. It’s overwhelming.

Eventually they pull apart, just to breathe, and Laurent says, “Damen.” The name comes out breathless and a little pleading. It’s the first time he’s ever said it out loud. Damen pulls him even closer until Laurent can feel the soft material of his chiton against his bare chest. Despite how warm he is, his nipples are peaked, and he makes a little noise as the cotton brushes against them. Damen’s hand begins to slide up his bare thigh, and Laurent stiffens.

He is suddenly acutely aware of where he is and who he’s with, of the alcohol in his system making everything feel easier— _too_ easy. Laurent shoves away, backing up until there’s a good amount of space between them.

“Don’t,” he says. He feels shaken to the core by the loss of control.

Damen’s eyebrows dip in confusion, not that Laurent can blame him. He was practically begging for it seconds ago. “You said you’ve already been with a man before…” Damen says, leading, clearly not sure what to make of Laurent’s sudden skittishness.

Laurent doesn’t look at him and holds himself very still. “Before I made my vows,” he clarifies, fingers curling into fists where they’re placed on his lap. It’s the only flicker of emotion he allows. The rest of him is like a statue, face stony and eyes shuttered. “I came to the monastery at thirteen.”

Damen’s eyes slowly widen as the truth begins to dawn on him. Not the whole truth, of course. Even intoxicated as he is, Laurent would never admit who had… had done _that_ to him.

“And you… with a man…” he says, the words taking on a new significance.

“Yes,” Laurent’s voice is barely a whisper. He doesn’t look at Damen’s face, can’t bear to see the disgust he knows will be there.

“You didn’t want to,” Damen says, sounding angry now.

“No—I don’t know,” Laurent says helplessly. It’s a question he’s asked himself many times. Did he want to? Was his uncle right about him?

“You were a child!” Damen says, and Laurent jerks back wide eyed as Damen swipes the empty tumbler violently off the table. It takes him a minute to calm down. Then, visibly softening, he places a hand carefully on Laurent’s shoulder. “It wasn’t your fault, Laurent. And you should know, I would never… _never_ force you.”

Despite everything that’s happened between them, Laurent finds himself placing his hand over Damen’s and saying, truthfully, “I know.”

The moment stretches out until Laurent grows uncomfortable. “Can we leave? I think I’d like to go to bed now.”

“Oh right, of course,” Damen says awkwardly.

 

 

Once inside the palace, Laurent leads them towards Kastor’s wing.

“My rooms are this way,” Damen says, gesturing in the opposite direction. Clearly he thinks Laurent must be more drunk than initially thought because he slips an arm around his shoulders as if he doesn’t trust him not to fall.

Laurent, for his part, decides to use this in his favor. “I want to see Aimeric, my brother from the monastery. Kastor took him as a slave so he must be in a room down this hall.”

Laurent leans heavily into Damen’s side and tries not to think about how nice he feels tucked there. That must still be the griva talking.

“Laurent, I don’t think we should…”

“Please, Damen?” Laurent looks up at Damen then, all piercing blue eyes and kiss swollen lips. He cups Damen’s chin, fingers brushing over where blood has dried. “Just this once.”

Damen swallows, and Laurent watches his adam's apple bob.

“Just this once,” he says. He probably means it to sound stern, but Laurent knows better. According to Isander, Kastor’s chambers should be easy to find. It seems the bastard compensates what he lacks in inheritance with flagrant displays of wealth. Laurent takes Damen’s hand and tugs him further down the hall.

 

 

When they reach Kastor’s rooms, Laurent lets go of Damen’s hand and strolls inside as if it’s his right.

“Laurent,” Damen hisses, following after him. “These are Kastor’s rooms.”

Laurent shrugs. “Then perhaps Aimeric will be in here.”

“You are drunk,” Damen says, but Laurent glides further inside, past the foyer, before Damen can even think to stop him. An apology already half-formed on his lips, he follows Laurent into what undoubtedly is the bedroom.

Then he stops.

Aimeric is, indeed, there, sleeping on the floor beside Kastor’s bed. But there’s someone else too, a familiar spill of long blond hair across the pillow beside Kastor’s.

“Jokaste?” Damen says, taking a disbelieving step forward.

Kastor comes awake with the swiftness of a soldier, Jokaste following at a more sedate pace. Her eyes go wide as she looks at Damen standing by the foot of the bed. She clutches a sheet to her bare chest, as if he hasn’t seen it all before.

“Damen, this isn’t—”

“How long?” he interrupts.

“I…” Jokaste looks down, as if ashamed, before her eyes catch on Laurent where he’s standing unobtrusively in one corner of the room, watching everything unfold with his arms crossed over his chest. “Was he the one who brought you here?” she hisses. “Conniving slut.”

Laurent smiles at her. “Takes one to know one.”

Damen steps forward, pulling Laurent back until he’s half hidden behind him. “Don’t talk to him like that!”

“Get out of my room, Damianos,” Kastor says. His voice is as cold and remote as Damen’s ever heard it. He feels those words like a knife to the chest. Kastor betrayed him, and he doesn’t even have the decency to look sorry about it.

By now Aimeric has sat up and is watching everything unfold from the comfort of his pallet. His eyes narrow on Laurent, flicking from the blood smeared on his face to the way Damen handles him gently as he takes Laurent’s arm and guides him back out to the foyer.

“Gladly,” Damen spits, ignoring the words racing through his mind in an endless loop: grave insults, demands to know _why_ , frustrated and inarticulate screaming. They all beg to be let loose in a torrent of rage, but he’s better than that; he has to be if he’s to be king someday.

Damen throws one last look back at Kastor and Jokaste, lying side by side, before leaving. He slams the door on his way out.

 

 

Later, Damen sits on the edge of his bed, face in his hands, fingers threaded through his hair, devastated.

“She was sleeping with him this whole time.”

Laurent says nothing. He doesn’t know what to say. Truthfully, he hadn’t given much thought to how this revelation would affect Damen. He hadn’t anticipated the raw, unadulterated pain Damen displays now without shame. He hadn’t cared.

“I thought she...” The words stick in Damen’s throat, and for one horrifying moment Laurent fears he might cry.

“Perhaps I should—” he says, inching towards the exit.

“No,” Damen says, finally lifting his head from his hands. He looks at Laurent with a fragileness that’s out of place on so big a man. “Stay with me tonight…” Laurent hesitates, but then Damen says, “Please?”

Damen has never said please—not to him, maybe not to anyone in his life. And Laurent supposes he owes Damen at least this much. He moves away from the entrance of the bedroom, feet padding silently to the empty side of the large bed. He slides carefully beneath the sheets, making sure to keep plenty of space between them, unable to stop a sigh at how comfortable it is. His pallet isn’t bad, but it’s not half as luxurious as this.

“Alright,” he says, turning onto his side so that he is facing the Prince. Damen still sits, shoulders hunched beneath the burden of his misery. Laurent tugs the sheets up to his chin. “I’ll stay.”

Offering a wan smile, Damen stands and undresses. He unpins the golden lion from the shoulder of his chiton, and the fabric falls to the floor. Laurent does not stare as Damen slips, naked, into bed beside him.

For a while they just stay like that in the quiet, Damen lost to his thoughts and Laurent studying his profile. Cautiously, he reaches out and brushes his finger along a pale line that catches the moonlight drifting in from the balcony.

“You have a scar.”

Damen glances down at it, lips pulling into a frown. “Kastor gave it to me.”

Laurent thoughtfully traces his finger over the raised skin before pulling his hand away, the rasp of his palm against the sheets blending with the faint sound of waves lapping the cliffs outside.

“Tell me more about your gods.”

Damen turns from his back to his side, lying parallel to Laurent. He seems relieved to be offered a distraction from his turbulent thoughts, and immediately launches into a tale of how the gods came into being. Laurent shifts around to get comfortable, feeling a bit like a child again. He remembers snuggling into Auguste’s bed, hogging all the blankets, and demanding a bedtime story nearly every night. Like Auguste, Damen continues telling the story until Laurent falls asleep to the gentle cadence of his voice.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> ... guys.. they finally kissed... reactions, thoughts, feelings? let me know in the comments!


	11. Chapter 11

 

#  _xi._

After that night, something changes between them.

Jokaste is moved to Kastor’s wing, and the gossip is ferocious among servants and courtiers alike. Rumors circulate that range from the truth of Jokaste’s affair to speculation that Damen has lost interest in women altogether.

Damen’s mood is stormy in the following weeks. When they spar in the morning, it is fierce, and Laurent is put on his back in the dirt faster and more frequently than ever before. He doesn’t complain though. His swordsmanship is improving rapidly now that Damen doesn’t have the patience to hold back. But perhaps the most peculiar change is how Damen no longer tries to woo Laurent to bed. Instead he asks him about Vere, and seems at once repulsed and captivated by their foreign customs. In return Damen tells him about Akielos, about an island named Isthima, and a summer palace just outside the capital his mother loved.

“She designed the gardens there,” he says. They are alone in Damen’s rooms, seated on a chaise lounge situated next to the balcony that juts from Damen’s bedroom. The sea breeze rolls in every few minutes, keeping them cool.

After a pause, Laurent says, “My mother loved to read.” It’s one of the few things Laurent remembers about her. Perhaps he shouldn’t be telling Damen, of all people, about her, but this far from Vere he finds it easier to talk about the things that hurt. Laurent tucks his hair, which is slowly beginning to grow past his shoulders, behind his ear; soon he will have to braid it back to keep it from sticking to him in the heat. “Even though she was sick, she said she could still go on adventures that way.”

Damen absorbs this information quietly. Finally he says, “Will you teach me how to read?”

Laurent thinks about it for a minute. “Only if you bring me more books.”

 

 

Tarchon is a ruthless tutor. He makes Laurent kneel on unforgiving marble until his legs are numb while reciting Damen’s favorite war ballads word for word. Still, however begrudging his admiration, Tarchon is clearly impressed by the speed at which Laurent learns each turn of phrase.

“Very well,” he says, his stony countenance unable to completely hide his irritation. Laurent is his best student, and he’s not even proper bed slave stock—not like the rest of the boys and girls who dwell in these special gardens. “Enough recitation for today. You will dance next.” Which is about as cruel as he’s allowed to be to Damen’s property. Laurent stands and ignores the pins and needles that prickle his feet and calves. Normally after recitation there are singing or instrument lessons to allow the legs to regain circulation, but Tarchon always makes sure to save those for _after_ Laurent is winded.

“Erasmus!” Tarchon calls.

Across the gardens, Erasmus startles and turns away from his conversation with Kastor’s slave, Kallias. Sitting side by side, they make quite a picture. Kallias’ skin and hair are a rich brown while his eyes are a startling blue made brighter by their dark frame. Erasmus is cream and honey beside him, all amber hair and carefully arranged limbs. He rises and hurries over, and Laurent doesn’t miss the wistful look on Kallias’ face that follows him all the way across the gardens.

“You will play the kithara while he dances.” As Laurent’s chosen mentor, it falls to Erasmus to help him with his studies.

Laurent lets muscle memory take over as the music begins. At first these lessons had been a personal hell: his limbs stiff and unyielding, the other slaves watching and whispering, laughing at his lack of sex appeal. This style of dance is far removed from the careful distance maintained between bodies in Vere. It is not the rhythmic count of steps shared by two stiff-backed nobles. It’s more primal than that.

Laurent gives himself over to it, letting the innate balance and grace of his limbs guide him as surely as they do with a sword. He closes his eyes and follows the beat with his hips, shifting them with the rise and fall of the kithara, hands lifting over his head, twining through the air in a silent siren call.

Unwittingly, Damen enters his mind. The yielding caress of his mouth, so different from the indomitable strength of his body, and the thrill he’d felt as Damen pulled him closer. The swell of his chest beneath flimsy white cotton, and the shadowed curve of his lower spine as he’d stripped in the spectral light of the moon. The way he’d looked touched by morning light, face relaxed in sleep, arm heavy where it’d draped across Laurent’s waist sometime in the night…

The song nears its end, and Laurent opens his eyes to find Tarchon nodding his approval but otherwise looking unmoved by his performance. Isander is also there, perhaps having arrived just minutes ago, eyes fixed on Laurent and face flushed as the final notes of the song fade into the open air.

Laurent turns away from all of them and focuses on inhaling the sweet, flower perfumed air, shaking off wayward thoughts of the Prince. No matter what this tenuous thing growing between them is, it cannot last. He is not Damen’s to possess.

 

 

Damen has been busy lately, constantly called to meetings, and as such Laurent works with Pallas in the mornings. Pallas is talented with a sword, but lacks the necessary bite to push Laurent to perform at his very best. So when Damen finally finds time to spar with him again, Laurent is filled with a well of ferocity that's pooled where only Damen seems able to reach in and draw it out.

Just like every time they’ve stood opposite in the ring, they begin circling each other, each step carefully choreographed.

“Have you gotten soft in my absence, sweetheart?” Damen calls, but it’s playful, nothing like before. Laurent doesn’t know if he hates this easy camaraderie more or less than their previous animosity.

“You’re the one who’s been sitting in council meetings all day growing fat,” Laurent returns, adjusting his grip on the hilt of his sword. They’ve graduated to real steel.

Damen laughs. “Perhaps you should come closer and see for yourself. I’ll allow you one free hit as long as it’s with your bare hands.” Laurent resists the urge to roll his eyes. For all Damen has backed off on touching him without permission, he is still an unscrupulous flirt. Taking the lull in their banter as an opportunity to strike, Laurent lunges forward. Each day of being ordered around and ogled leaves him eager to hurt something, and he doesn’t hesitate when offered the chance.

This time when Damen parries, Laurent adjusts his sword so that Damen’s heavy swing glances off his blade, diverting its power and jarring Laurent’s finely boned wrists less. They continue that way, Damen overwhelming him with sheer athletic ability and finely honed skill, Laurent fending him off with clever strategies and quick footwork. He’s nearly backed Damen into a corner when a single word makes him stop cold.

“Auguste?”

The name is no more than a whisper carried on the wind, but Laurent hears it loud and clear. He drops his sword in shock. Damen, who was in the middle of executing a fatal blow, curses and stops his blade inches from Laurent’s vulnerable throat. Laurent doesn’t even notice, turning to stare at the two men standing at the edge of the practice grounds, watching them.

One of them looks to be older than Damen, but not so old as Theomedes, with a dark, finely trimmed beard and kind eyes. His coloring is similar to that of the Akielons, but the style of his clothing is distinctly different. Next to him is a Veretian man dressed in the same style, face pale and eyes wide like he’s just seen a ghost. Laurent doesn’t recognize him, but clearly he must recognize something of Laurent.

“Torveld!” Damen tosses his sword aside in the dirt and strides quickly over to their guests. He and Torveld clasp each other’s forearms in a warrior’s greeting. Laurent takes his time walking over to them, and, when he reaches Damen’s side, folds himself into a graceful kneel at his feet. If possible, the Veretian grows even more pale. Torveld, however, appears captivated.

“And who is this, Damianos?”

Damen places a possessive hand atop Laurent’s head. “This is my new slave, Laurent.”

“What,” Torveld says, never taking his eyes from Laurent, “a stunning creature.”

Damen’s smile grows strained around the edges in response to his friend’s frank admiration. Throwing an arm around Torveld’s shoulders, he turns him away from Laurent and quickly begins guiding him towards the palace. “Come. I’m sure Father will want to know of your arrival.”

Laurent and the Veretian man are left alone.

Slowly, Laurent rises to his feet. “How do you know my brother?”

The man’s mouth opens and closes a few times, searching for words, before he sinks to one knee, head bowed and eyes fixed on the ground. “I served him. I was part of his royal guard.”

Laurent’s heart pounds loud in his ears. The world feels like it’s tilting sideways.

“Then you know who I am,” he says. He’s too shocked to register the redundancy of the question.

“Yes, Your Highness.” The title jolts Laurent from his daze. He hasn’t been called that in years.

“Stand,” he says, and the man rises to his feet. “What is your name?”

“Jord.”

He doesn’t look much older than Laurent. Perhaps around Damen’s age, but with deep lines etched into his face, the markings of a life filled with strife.

“Jord, you can tell no one who I am.” Laurent doesn’t even want to imagine what Theomedes might do with a hostage Veretian prince, Damen’s wants be damned. “Here, I am just a slave.” Jord opens his mouth as if to protest, but Laurent cuts him off. “Do you understand?”

He seems to struggle with that for a moment, but eventually says, “I understand.”

“Good.”

Laurent turns on his heel and heads for the palace. He doesn’t know or care whether Jord follows. The world feels as though it’s rearranged itself in a matter of minutes, and now Laurent needs time alone to think and figure out what to do next.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> it's my headcanon that laurent most closely resembles auguste when he fights. in other news, the damen thirst continues.
> 
> comments and kudos please!


	12. Chapter 12

 

#  _xii._

“Lykaios is sick,” Adrastus informs them the next evening. Standing clustered beside Laurent are Erasmus, Kallias, and Aden, who is Theomede’s slave. “Laurent, you will take her place in the performance tonight.”

Laurent’s lips thin into a bloodless line.

“But who will serve Damen?” he asks. The last thing he wants to do is catch more eyes; he already draws enough attention as it is.

“Isander will attend him.” Adrastus’ tone is clipped, eyes narrowed with disapproval, either at the backtalk or the casual use of Damen’s nickname or some combination of both.

“Why can’t Isander dance tonight?” Laurent says. Or perhaps Erasmus could do it, though he is far more skilled in recitation than dance. Laurent might have told Jord he is nothing but a slave here, but he’d rather not debase himself in front of his brother’s ex-comrade. Auguste must be rolling in his grave.

“Because,” Adrastus’ voice is thick with dislike, “he is not Damen’s famed slave who is coveted,” he says, with more than a little sarcasm, “by the gods themselves.  _You_ are, and you will cease questioning my decisions, slave.”

Laurent narrows his eyes but says no more.

“Tonight,” Adrastus says. “There will be a welcoming feast for our Patran guests.” Patras, Laurent has learned, is a country that borders Akielos to the north. News of Damen’s triumph in Vere had traveled, and it is said both Patras and Akielos will combine their forces and fleets within a fortnight, then set sail to raid. “Torveld is the younger brother of the Patran king. As such, his arrival demands the absolute best Akielos has to offer: you.” Adrastus sweeps his eyes over each one of them, lingering on Laurent to make it clear he doesn’t think Laurent qualifies but has little choice but to include him. “You will perform perfectly, or you will face the consequences. Do not make a laughing stock of our kingdom.”

Erasmus looks shaken by the possibility of consequences, and Kallias places a comforting hand on his shoulder. Aden just looks haughty; clearly he has no doubts as to whether or not he can rise to the challenge. Laurent thinks wistfully back to when his duties consisted of simply pouring wine and ignoring Damen.

Adrastus claps his hands and the room is filled with servants—or perhaps slaves who failed to catch a royal eye—who proceed to prepare them for the evening. They’re bathed meticulously, each spec of dirt scrubbed from beneath their nails, their bodies rubbed down in oils to soften and smooth their skin so they gleam in the torchlight. They’re also prepared in other ways, and Laurent nearly blackens the eye of a slave who reaches between his legs before Adrastus calls in some guards to hold him still.

It’s humiliating, worse even than when he’d first been brought here. Laurent breathes through it and forces down the panic, reminding himself of Damen the night of the festival: his earnest eyes, and the way he’d emphasized the word ‘never’ when talking about forcing Laurent. Damen wouldn’t do this to him, wouldn’t give him to anyone else. He wants to believe that. But Torveld had looked at him with open lust, and wasn’t offering up your best slaves basic hospitality in Akielos? Laurent’s teeth clench at the thought. Trusting has never come easy to him, and it doesn’t now. The thought reforms: Damen won’t give him away tonight, Laurent will make _sure_ of it; by the end of his dance Damen won’t be able to look anywhere else, won’t want anyone to touch Laurent but him.

Finally the fingers cease and Laurent is released. He feels, in some ways, detached from his body, like it’s no longer his own now that it’s been invaded. He’s felt that way before, but Laurent pushes those feelings away before they can turn into memories and find a foothold in the forefront of his mind. To distract himself, he looks around the room. Each slave has their face painted more extravagantly than usual, but Laurent, as the main visual component of the performance, is painted even more elaborately still.

A servant carefully lines his eyes with kohl, winging it out at the corners dramatically, while another paints his lips a darker shade of pink, giving the illusion that he’s just been kissed. Still more servants dust his body with gold. They leave his hair loose around his shoulders, but manipulate the ends to gently curl along the sweep of his shoulders. From the corner of his eyes, he can see Adrastus shaking his head as different pieces of cloth are held up for his inspection. Eventually he nods at a deep blue robe woven through with golden thread in swirling designs.

They slip it over Laurent’s shoulders, and Adrastus eyes him up and down consideringly. The robe brings the blue of his eyes into almost startling intensity, brighter still for the kohl surrounding them, but finally he shakes his head once in the negative and the robe is removed. It continues on this way: servants wrap him in everything from red silks the same shade as Damen’s cape to shiny lilac satin that flows down his body like water. Eventually they dress him in a cream colored robe that gives Adrastus pause. It’s opaque enough to keep a little mystery about the most intimate details of his body, but sheer enough to draw the eye to every graceful line of his silhouette. Clusters of delicate flowers are sewn in gold along the hems, and the sleeves are wide and long. It reminds Laurent of a wedding dress; were it not for the gossamer quality of the fabric, he would have looked shapeless, but with the golden glow from the torches lighting him from behind, everyone would see the shadowed tease of his naked body beneath the robe. Adrastus nods his approval.

Then comes the jewelry. Servants hold up necklaces in front of his chest, all of which Adrastus waves away. A wise choice in Laurent’s opinion; the thick golden collar is gaudy enough. Similarly, they do not adorn his gold-cuffed wrists with anything except sweet smelling perfume. Laurent sees servants across the room weaving pearls through Kallias’ dark hair and slipping bangles onto Erasmus’ ankles, but Laurent is only given a single dangling earring. Sapphires drip from it like falling stars, an exact match for his eyes. The deliberate asymmetry is odd but arresting.

Finally, they close the open robe with a satin bow, cinching it tight around his waist, the tails long enough to brush the floor. Tonight Laurent is a gift, easily undone.

 

 

By the time they’re finished with the extensive preparation it’s time for the feast. Laurent feels a curl of unease in his stomach as they walk down the secret servant passages with Adrastus in the lead. In the throne room, long tables have been set out in preparation for the high volume of guests, each laden with food and drink. There is a space cleared, as there always is, for music and recitation. Typically this blends with the raucous laughter and talk that’s customary during mealtimes. Today, however, the slightly raised stage draws every eye, and there is a hush of anticipation in place of idle chatter.

Aden, Erasmus, and Kallias all enter the room before he does. They move off to one side, Kallias on the kithara and Aden on a set of drums. Erasmus is further in front, folding himself into a perfect kneel. Kallias begins with a slow pluck of strings; he is delicate with the instrument in a way Laurent has not heard before, lending it new beauty with just the tips of his fingers. Aden follows him a minute later with the drums, providing the song with a steady pulse that seems to sync with Laurent's heartbeat. Laurent breathes deeply, sensing his cue. He tells himself he has no need for nerves. As a prince, his childhood was spent in the spotlight, and, as a slave, he’s been an object of covetous desire. This is not so different.

Adrastus signals him forward with a wave of his hand, and Laurent steps onto the stage and into a pool of flickering golden light coming from the torches overhead.

He starts the dance with a single roll of his ankle, bare leg peeking out from the robe, toes poised on the floor and foot arched. The circular motion moves up his leg, slowly, sensually, until he’s following it with his hips, head tipped back and eyes closed as if in rapture. Then Erasmus’ voice, clear as a bell, pierces the room.

 _They are surely gods who speak to him_ _  
_ _with steady voices._

Laurent twirls in place, golden hair catching the light as it streams behind him. He stops with his back to the audience, loosening his robe until it starts to slip off one creamy shoulder, then the other, never losing the beat with his hips. As Erasmus recites the next lines, Laurent glances back, sapphire earring winking at the audience.

 _A glance from him drives men to their knees.  
_ _His sigh brings cities to ruin._

He sees Damen, who is seated next to his father atop the dais reserved for royalty, on the edge of his seat, mouth slightly ajar like he can’t believe what he’s witnessing. Torveld is next to him, eyes dark and hands white knuckled where they grip the arms of his throne. Perhaps the most surprising is Jord, who isn’t watching him at all, but appears to be accepting more wine from a dark haired slave. Laurent turns his face away as white fabric slides lower and lower until it pools around his hips, exposing the elegant line of his back, the sinuous twist of it as he dances, the subtle dip of his spine just before the swell of his ass—but then the robe is tugged back up over his shoulders as if he’d never let it fall.

He turns back around on the ball of his foot so that he’s once more facing the audience, eyes unerringly finding Damen’s as he sways to the beat, arms rising and crossing in the air at the wrist: a token of his submission. He holds Damen’s gaze for a beat before rolling his head back as if in the throes of passion, exposing the vulnerable arch of his neck and the solid golden collar that marks him as owned.

 _I wonder if he dreams of surrender  
_ _on a bed of white flowers._

The beat begins to pick up and Laurent moves with it, hips rolling shamelessly, beckoning to every man and woman in the room. His skin gleams with sweat, shimmering gold. He can’t hear anything over the pounding of the drums or the pounding of his heart.

 _Or is that the mistaken hope  
_ _of every would-be conqueror._

Laurent imagines breaking from the choreography, going up to Damen’s throne and dancing right in front of him, imagines crawling into his lap so that the Prince can look nowhere else. It’s a mistake to think Arsaces was ever anything but the conqueror in this tale, his surrender naught but a trap to tame even the most powerful of men.

_The world was not made for beauty like his._

Laurent’s chest heaves as the song winds down, drumbeat fading, Erasmus’ voice trailing off, leaving only the carefully plucked notes of the kithara singing through the air. Laurent slows his dance, grabbing one tail of the satin bow teasingly. He can sense the collectively held breath as he tugs ever so gently, drawing it out, until finally the bow comes undone. The robe loosens, begins to part in the middle, a flash of pale skin and then—

The torches surrounding the stage are simultaneously extinguished, leaving Laurent cloaked in shadow, hidden from spectator eyes. The crowd bursts into cheers as he leaves the stage, Aden, Kallias, and Erasmus following in his wake.

 

 

Laurent is retying the bow on his robe—Adrastus is much too busy accepting praise for their performance to provide Laurent with a proper change of clothes, or what qualifies as proper in Akielos—and walking down an empty hall towards the feast when a pair of hands grab him around the waist, tugging him back into a shadowed alcove. He goes very still before realizing he recognizes those hands: Damen. Laurent shouldn’t feel as self satisfied as he does once he knows who’s pressed up against him. Laurent turns in the circle of Damen’s arms so that he can face him. Even in the shadows, he can see how blown Damen’s pupils are as he gazes down at Laurent’s painted face. Laurent raises a single eyebrow.

“Yes?”

“Tonight,” Damen begins, his voice rough. “You were…”

Laurent allows a smile to touch his lips. “Yes?” he repeats.

“Gods,” Damen groans, hands squeezing at Laurent’s waist. The touch isn’t demanding so much as pleading. “You drive me crazy.”

Laurent makes a low humming noise in the back of his throat, sliding a hand down Damen’s chest, lingering along the swell of his pecs. “And your friends,” he says in a voice like honeyed poison, “do I drive them crazy too?”

Damen’s eyes, tracking Laurent’s wandering hand distractedly, snap back up to his face. “What?”

“That’s what you want, right?” Laurent leans closer, going up onto his toes to better hiss in Damen’s ear. “To pass me around, show all your guests your special little whore?”

Damen looks horrified. “No!” he says, voice loud in the empty hall. “Gods no, Laurent. Why would you think that?”

Laurent yanks away from him, breaking the circle of his arms. “Why do you think?” he snaps. When Damen continues to stare at him with that pathetic expression, Laurent decides to spell it out for him. “Adrastus,” his voice positively drips with loathing, “had all of us _prepared_ in the event that we might be of use.”  _To others_. The words went unspoken. It’s common knowledge that Damen prefers to prepare his slaves himself; he likes, according to gossip, to draw out his partners’ pleasure endlessly.

“Laurent,” he says, and there’s something in his voice that soothes some of the indignation, the anger, and the shame that has been steadily building all night. Damen takes Laurent gently back between his hands, large palms framing his waist, and tugs him out of the pool of light spilling down from a sconce and back into the dim intimacy of the shadows. He’s positioned between Damen and the wall, the Prince standing in front of him as if he could protect Laurent that way, hide him from the world. “I didn’t know. I swear.”

In the face of Damen’s earnestness Laurent feels his anger begin to cool, and, as the emotion slips away like a receding tide, he’s left with only the memory of his temper’s heat and a hyper-awareness of his proximity to Damen.

“I believe you,” he says, and realizes he means it. The tension in the air somehow changes then, shifting with those words. In this shaded alcove where anyone could walk by and see, Laurent can’t help but feel like he and Damen are the only two people in the world. Damen swallows and Laurent watches the movement of his adam’s apple raptly, the slow bob up and down.

“No one should ever touch you,” Damen says, voice gone low and rough again. The same magnetizing force Laurent remembers from the festival stretches taut between them, like a thread ready to snap, “not if you don’t want—”

“Damen,” Laurent says. He takes in the breadth of Damen’s shoulders, the worried crease of his brow, the way shadows play across his handsome face, and feels a spark of heat low in his belly. No one has ever shown him this kind of consideration—not since Auguste. “Damen,” he says again in a different tone, a sultry one he hadn't known he had, and reaches up, brushing his fingers over Damen’s forehead, smoothing the lines there. He cups his palm along Damen’s cheek, bringing his face down until their noses are nearly touching. For a moment Laurent just stares into Damen’s eyes, soaking in the sincerity and warmth there, before letting his gaze drop to his lips. Laurent’s next words are low and breathless. “I _want_.”

 

 

The first kiss is slow. Damen tilts his head until their noses are brushing and they’re breathing each other’s air. Laurent’s lashes lower as he tips his head back, offering his mouth. Those soft, painted lips, ever-so-slightly parted, have Damen letting out a quiet groan. He presses closer, caging Laurent in against the wall, but reminds himself to keep it gentle, _careful_. One kiss turns into another, then another, until Laurent is wrapping his arms around Damen’s neck, fingers curling into the hair at his nape. Laurent kisses like a virgin, clumsy but sweet and eager. It makes Damen’s cock harder than it should. He skims his fingers along Laurent’s sides, the silky fabric of his robe smooth beneath his hands. In the dim lighting he can just make out the outline of Laurent’s naked body beneath the robe; he wants to tear it off him.

They pull apart, a scant inch between their faces, and Damen watches Laurent’s eyes open. They’re a little dazed and bright blue, like the Akielon sky at the height of summer. Damen cups Laurent’s chin, thumb teasing over his lower lip. He can feel Laurent’s soft panting against the pad of his thumb and see the barest hint of a pink tongue. “Laurent,” he murmurs, caressing the shape of his mouth with reverence. “Are you sure you—”

“Damen,” Laurent grabs the hand grasping his chin and guides it downward. Damen’s heart thuds hard in his chest as he allows Laurent to manipulate his hand, curling his fingers obligingly around the muscled curve of Laurent’s thigh when he presses it there, then hitching his leg up around his hip. “Shut up and kiss me.”

He doesn’t have to tell Damen twice. He leans in for another kiss and this time they don’t stop. Laurent is practically clawing at the back of his chiton as Damen slides his tongue against the roof of his mouth. His hand rubs up and down Laurent’s thigh, rucking up the fabric of his robe until he feels skin. Damen can’t help but follow the curve of Laurent’s leg until his fingers brushes the crease where thigh meets ass. And gods does Laurent have a great ass—high and tight, with just enough bounce to tempt every man in the room. Sometimes all Damen can think about is holding Laurent down and fucking into that perfect body. He’s thinking about it now as his fingers creep inward until he feels the slick oil between Laurent’s legs. He bites back a groan, cock giving a jerk as Laurent squirms, pushing back against his fingers.

“Do it,” he whispers against Damen’s mouth. “Damen—”

Damen rubs his fingers against the delicate, puckered skin, feeling how soft Laurent is there. “You want me to put my fingers in you?” he asks as Laurent’s breath hitches. The fact that Laurent is letting Damen touch him there, open him up, has Damen throbbing. “Gods, you’re pretty,” Damen murmurs, easing his index finger inside, groaning at how hot it is, how ready Laurent is to take more. “So perfect.”

“Deeper,” Laurent demands, nails digging into Damen’s shoulders. He meets Damen’s eyes and doesn’t look away as his finger slips in past the knuckle.

“Fuck,” Damen gasps because he's still so tight even after being fingered open. Damen thinks about Laurent dancing like that, slick between the thighs and ready to be fucked at a moments notice. Laurent is flushed from the tips of his ears down past his collarbones, eyes lidded as he looks down, watching the way Damen's arm moves beneath his robe. He thrusts his finger in and out before adding another one, watches Laurent tip his head back against the wall and moan. “That’s it,” Damen whispers, leaning forward to run his tongue over the curve of Laurent’s ear, dragging his teeth against the lobe while Laurent shivers helplessly. “You can take it.” He hums with approval as Laurent begins to rock his hips, slow at first, then faster, riding his fingers like he was born to it. Damen presses a kiss to his throat. “You’re so gorgeous,” he praises, “so good for me. Tell me how it feels.”

“Full,” Laurent says, and there’s an edge to his voice that implies Damen is an idiot for asking. The Prince laughs against his collarbone, curling his fingers just right so that Laurent gasps and tosses his head back and forth, quivering.

“And?” Damen whispers, grinding his cock into Laurent’s hip so he can feel the size of it. When the blond doesn’t respond, just pants and squirms and tries to get Damen brush past that spot again, Damen’s tone goes a little hard around the edges. “Tell me or I stop.”

“It…” Laurent hesitates, but when Damen slows the movement of his fingers he swallows his pride and continues, “...feels good.” He admits this in a voice so uncharacteristically shy that it drives Damen a little wild. “I didn’t think it could feel this good.” Laurent is such a fragile thing like this, so easily taken apart. Damen wants nothing more than to spend the rest of their days making Laurent feel so good he begs for it to end.

He slides his other hand beneath Laurent’s robe, palm brushing against the hard curve of Laurent’s cock where it’s flushed and leaking, curved up towards his belly. Laurent gives an aborted jerk of his hips, eyelashes fluttering at the sensation, and Damen rubs his palm nice and slow against the tip while Laurent’s muscles tense like he’s trying not to cum.

Then he hears footsteps.

 

 

Both Damen and Laurent freeze.

It only takes moments before a giggling pair stumble into view, clearly as intoxicated by drink as they are by each other. One is dressed in Patran clothing while the other is completely naked save for the glint of gold. Laurent instantly recognizes both of them: Aimeric and Jord.

Laurent tries to quiet his breathing, ignoring the fact that Damen’s hands are still under his robe and on his person. He keeps as still as possible and Damen does the same. As long as they don’t draw attention to themselves...

“Your Highness?!”

But, of course, it’s never that easy.

For a moment they all just stare at each other, Jord and Aimeric coming to a standstill at the mouth of the alcove. Jord’s eyes dart from Damen’s face to Laurent’s face, then to where Damen’s hands are hidden from view. Laurent raises an eyebrow at Jord’s hand where it rests scandalously low on Aimeric’s bare back. Aimeric glares at Laurent. Damen tries to look unassuming as he withdraws his hands, surreptitiously wiping his fingers on the skirt of his chiton.

“Your Highness?” Aimeric questions in quiet Veretian, redirecting his gaze to Jord. His eyes soften almost immediately from their previous glare but suspicion lingers in his face.

Jord looks panicked for half a second before his expression smooths and he says, “I was just so surprised to see Damianos-exalted here,” _Fucking a slave in public_ goes unsaid, “that it came out in Veretian.”

Damen looks between the three of them, having not understood a word of the conversation.

“Is there a problem here?” he asks, directing his question at Jord.

“No, Exalted. We were just leaving,” he replies, though his eyes flicker to Laurent who gives an almost imperceptible nod. Jord takes Aimeric’s hand and leads him away, presumably to an empty bedroom.

“Are you going to tell Kastor?” Laurent asks, slanting a gaze at Damen.

Damen doesn’t mention how Laurent fails to tack on an honorific to Kastor’s name, which he supposes is an answer in and of itself. Damen shoots him a smile that’s full of teeth.

“If he wanted me to tell him when his slaves fuck around behind his back, he shouldn’t have fucked around behind mine.”

Laurent smiles back.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> apologies for the late update but, as you can see, this shameless gratuitous thing happened. the plot will continue next chapter lmao (and if anyone thinks i should raise the fic rating, let me know). shout out to **liesmyth** , **vekelios** , and **jeanbo** @ tumblr for putting up with my complaining and dramatics while i wrote this. i love you all.
> 
> in other news, i've gotten a job! if all goes well, i'll be starting next wednesday. i'm not entirely sure how that'll affect my writing schedule, but if i don't update on time again, don't panic.
> 
> comments & kudos would be greatly appreciated. :)))


	13. Chapter 13

 

#  _xiii._

Torveld has not left him alone since the night of the dance. It would be annoying if it didn’t affront Damen so much, who in turn sets off Nikandros, and Jokaste, who then sets off Kastor. It’s amusing to watch, and Laurent has no books here for entertainment, so he does nothing to discourage Torveld’s blatant flirtations. Being in Torveld’s company also means being in Jord’s, who follows them like a shadow and feels like a little piece of Auguste returned to him. He allows Torveld to take him on walks along the beach where he first stepped foot on Akielon soil, allows his lips to quirk as Torveld waxes poetic about everything from his eyes to his gait. Torveld seems enamored by how cheeky Laurent is for a slave: not lowering his eyes when he speaks, allowing his biting wit to creep into their conversation, deliberately keeping stride with Torveld instead of trailing after him like an eager pup.

“Damianos is teaching you to fight,” he says while they’re strolling to the stables. It's a place Laurent has never had cause to go, and he may have let it slip that he dearly loves horses. Torveld had been all too eager to get him excused from his afternoon lessons so they could peruse the stables together. Adrastus had looked sour, which made it all the better.

“He is,” Laurent agrees, reaching up to tuck a wayward strand of hair behind his ear. Torveld smiles at him like he’s a puzzle and a wonder all in one.

“What use could you have for a sword?” Torveld leans closer and reaches up so that his fingertips whisper along Laurent’s cheek. “You should be safe here. Are you not afforded every luxury?” He doesn’t presume to touch Laurent further, stepping back and dropping his hand. It’s one of the reasons Laurent tolerates his company.

“I don’t lack for anything except entertainment.” _And freedom_.

“While I’m visiting, I’d be happy to entertain you,” Torveld offers, voice dipping low. Laurent resists the urge to roll his eyes, ducking into the stables before Torveld can proposition him again.

He is immediately assaulted by the smell of hay and the quiet rustle of horses shifting in their stalls. He walks forward slowly, eyeing each horse, before coming to a stop in front of a beautiful gelding with its ears perked curiously. Its coat is gray and spotted with white, like constellations backed by a stormy sky. Laurent carefully reaches out and strokes its velvet nose, a rare smile curling his lips.

“You’re good with them,” Torveld says, watching the gentle way Laurent glides the flat of his hand along the horse’s neck. Jord is nowhere to be seen, so he must be waiting outside at Torveld’s behest.

“I was around horses a lot as a child,” Laurent says, not turning away from the gentle beast.

“Perhaps,” Torveld begins in the same suggestive voice from earlier, “you’d like to go for a ride?”

Which is when Damen walks in.

“Torveld, Laurent,” he greets with a wide smile and a gracious incline of his head. It’s clearly not a coincidence he’s turned up here; Damen has never been subtle. “Nice day for a ride, isn’t it?”

“Didn’t you have council matters to attend today?” Torveld inquires politely.

“We’ve broken for lunch,” Damen says, gesturing for a stable boy to begin saddling two horses. “Figured I’d go for a ride to clear my mind.”

“Shouldn’t you be saddling a third horse?” Laurent cuts in.

Damen turns a radiant smile on Laurent, teeth blindingly white against his bronzed skin. “You’ll ride with me, of course.”

Laurent raises his eyebrows to show he's unimpressed and opens his mouth to protest, but Torveld beats him to it, stepping up beside him and saying, “Surely he’d be better off riding with me, Damianos. After all, with your considerable size your steed has its work cut out for him.” Torveld claps a hand on Damen’s shoulder, making it clear he means no offense. Damen claps Torveld’s shoulder back with enough strength to rattle Torveld’s teeth.

“No need to worry, friend. My horse is stronger than your standard courser, and can easily bear the weight of two people.”

They both smile at each other and square their shoulders as if for a fight; the amiable expressions remain plastered on their faces as they argue back and forth over who Laurent should ride with.

Fed up with the figurative dick measuring contest, Laurent walks out of the stable, not caring whether Damen and Torveld follow. Jord watches with a panicked expression as Laurent emerges from the stables and swings himself up onto Damen’s black Friesian horse, taking the reins from the stunned stable boy. The horse is larger and far more powerful than anything Laurent has ridden before; giddiness wells up inside him. He lightly kicks his heels into the horse’s sides until it jerks forward, then squeezes his legs and tugs the reins to make it stop, testing his control. It’s been a while since he’s ridden, but Laurent has a natural seat and an easy command of the animal.

“How about this,” Laurent says, angling a look down his nose at the two princes who have finally stopped bickering long enough to exit the stables. Laurent would like to think he looks intimidating atop the horse, but in truth it probably dwarfs him. “ _If_ you can catch me, I’ll think about riding back with one of you.”

And then, with a kick of his heels and a flash of blond hair, he’s off, racing away into the distance, chased only by the sound of Damen and Torveld yelling his name.

 

 

Later Jord finds him in the gardens, bare feet dipped into a pool of clear blue water, the book of John resting open on his lap.

“You realize they’re still out looking for you?” he says, taking a seat beside Laurent at the edge of the pool, cross legged so that his boots don’t get wet.

“I figured they might be,” Laurent says without looking up, turning another page. “You shouldn’t be here, you know,” he continues. “These are the slave gardens. The regular gardens are in the opposite direction.”

“I was a slave once,” Jord muses. “Perhaps they’ll have no complaint of my presence here.”

Laurent’s head snaps up and he fixes Jord with an incredulous look. “You were a slave?”

Jord shrugs his shoulders. “Not like you. Just another body to use for physical labor, mostly. After a few years they made me a free man due to good behavior.”

Laurent tries to hide his shock. “They free slaves in Patras?”

Jord gives him a wry look. “Only the ugly ones. I’m sure it’s similar here.”

Laurent  _has_ wondered where the rest of his monastery brothers have gone. He’d assumed the worst, but perhaps they're actually somewhere outside the palace being worked to the bone.

“So, what you're saying is there’s no hope of me being freed.” Laurent turns his attention back to his book. He feels stung even though he knew what to expect; Damen is far from bored with him yet. It could take years before Damen even _thinks_ about letting him go—or perhaps this pampered cage is meant as a kindness, and he will never be freed.

“Probably not,” Jord admits, then, with a glance in Laurent’s direction, says, “Especially since you and the Prince seem so close…”

“Don’t,” Laurent says. Jord obediently falls silent.  

Minutes pass by. A breeze rustles the pages of Laurent’s book. Then, “What really happened to my brother?”

“What did they tell you?”

Laurent hesitates. “That he died at sea during a storm.”

“There was a storm,” Jord concedes. “But only after half the crew—the half loyal to your uncle—turned on us. They slit his throat,” Jord says tightly, “then tied bags of sand to his feet before they threw him overboard.” Of course they did; Auguste’s body would never be found at the bottom of the ocean. Laurent curls his fingers into fists so quickly and violently that it crumples the page beneath his hand. “They thought it would be funny to make me walk the plank,” Jord continues on a sigh. “By then the storm had already started, but I don’t think anyone expected it to get as bad as it did. I don’t remember much after that, just clinging to whatever was left of the boat desperately as I was tossed around in the waves. Eventually I washed up on shore in Patras.”

Laurent can guess what happened next. He feels hollow. Suspecting what his uncle had done was one thing, but hearing it confirmed is like a knife to the back. When Jord had showed up Laurent tentatively harbored a flame of hope that Auguste could be somewhere out there too, looking for a way back home. Now that hope is gone.

“I’m sorry I failed him,” Jord says when Laurent does not speak further. He places a hand ever so briefly on Laurent’s shoulder—the first, and probably the last, liberty Jord has ever taken with him—before getting up and walking away.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> more torveld and jord ft. some backstory!
> 
> comments and kudos are loved and appreciated.


	14. Chapter 14

 

#  _xiv._

For the next few days Laurent stays in bed faking illness. He can’t help but think about his kingdom, and how he’d left his people to suffer under the rule of a monster known only as the Regent. The title brings a cruel smile to Laurent’s lips. Despite his uncle’s best attempts, the word “king” will never suit him. The smile wanes when he realizes he’s been a coward, running away in the hour of Vere’s need. Auguste wouldn’t have run.

But Auguste isn’t here, and Laurent is alone.

 

 

Two nights later when Damen summons him to his rooms, he goes without fuss. He curls up beside him and ignores the sweet kisses peppered along the length of his neck. Thankfully, Damen seems to sense his mood and does not attempt to go further; Laurent rewards him by allowing himself to be held.

He lies awake until morning breaks, content to pretend they'd found each other some other way, as equals instead of enemies.

 

 

“You fight like an Akielon,” Jord says in Veretian, blocking another of Laurent’s strikes. Jord has been happy to fill in for Damen while the Prince is preoccupied with diplomatic matters, and even Torveld now lacks the free time to accompany him as the Akielon and Patran parties hash out details on the upcoming raid. In Jord’s mind it’s criminal that Laurent doesn’t know the sword craft of his own country, and so has taken it upon himself to teach him to the best of his abilities.

He dodges another of Laurent's jabs, this time just barely. Jord has come to realize that Laurent and Auguste differ as much as the sun and moon, though both manage to shine. Where Auguste was straightforward and intuitive, Laurent’s mind is a twisting maze, a puzzle that changes every time you think you’ve finally figured it out. Jord smiles as he says, “But you think like a Veretian.”

Laurent returns the smile. With a sword in his hand, sunlight gleaming off his hair, and fierceness in his lovely face, he looks like an avenging angel, like something you paint on church ceilings. “Was there ever any doubt?”

“I suppose not. Vere is still your home and your birthright. Always will be.”

Laurent’s eyes flick briefly to where Aimeric is sitting off to the side of the training area, the only other person who can understand Veretian within palace walls. He is watching the fight innocently enough, gaze lingering on the way Jord’s muscles shift beneath his shirt as he swings his sword. Laurent is surprised Kastor lets him wander as he pleases. After all, the bastard prince hasn't exactly given an impression of leniency, but perhaps he's already shifted his attention to a new slave. Kastor doesn't seem the type to stay satisfied with what he has for long.

Deciding that Aimeric is both too distracted and too far away to hear, Laurent refocuses on the conversation. 

“I... abandoned Vere,” he says, testing the words out loud. It feels good to have finally said it to someone who knows the truth about him.

Jord shakes his head. “You were a child.”

“Thirteen is old enough,” Laurent says.

Jord gives him a long, searching look. Then he says, gentler this time, “No, Your Highness, it isn’t.”

A disorienting cocktail of anger, frustration, and shame wells up inside him, rushing over him all at once. He doesn’t want this kindness. He doesn’t deserve it.

He swings his sword hard at Jord, but the Veretian blocks it easily, older, stronger, and more experienced. Blades crossed, Laurent meets Jord's steady gaze, the high Akielon sun beating down hot on his bare back. When Laurent can't bear to see the pity in Jord's eyes any longer, he steps back and tosses his sword into the sand. 

 

 

A few nights later Laurent finds Damen on the balcony that juts from the Prince's bedroom. He walks over to join him, the sea breeze whipping his hair back from his face and causing goosebumps to erupt along his arms.

“Damen?” he says, placing a hand on the man’s forearm. It’s solid and thick beneath Laurent’s fingers, corded with strength. Laurent absolutely does not let his mind wander back to that night when Damen had had him up against a wall, that same arm slipping between the fabric of his ridiculously flimsy robe…

“We leave tomorrow.”

Laurent takes his hand away. “To raid Vere?”

Damen has the gall to look guilty as he says, “Yes. Normally I bring a few slaves to accompany me—”

Laurent's eyebrows arch. “You didn’t last time.”

Damen runs a hand through his hair and looks back out at the sea, as if not meeting Laurent’s eyes will make talking about pillaging his home country any easier. “Because we only had one ship, not a fleet, and we sailed against my father’s wishes. The journey was treacherous, and we didn’t plan to stay long enough to make camp. This time will be different.”

“You’ll steal more this time,” Laurent says, eyes hard with accusation as he gazes at Damen's profile, and his voice begins to rise without his permission. “Hurt more innocents.”

“We don’t hurt innocents if it can be avoided.”

Laurent has to laugh at that. “You hurt me.”

“I never meant to.”

“You took me from my home.”

“I don’t regret it,” Damen says. It's the last thing Laurent expects to hear, and the words are like a slap to the face. Laurent steps back as if physically pushed. “I don’t regret a single day of knowing you.” Damen turns and raises a hand and caresses Laurent’s hair, his cheek, the side of his neck. Laurent is too shocked to push him away. “But I won’t ask you to come with me.”

He turns to go back inside the bedroom, and Laurent’s mind races.

“Wait,” Damen pauses, “I’ll go. I want to go.” Laurent's voice gains conviction. “I... I think I need need to say goodbye to my old life, to who I _used_ to be.”

“Do you really mean that?” Damen says.

“Yes,” Laurent answers, a little breathless. “There are some things I still can’t forgive, but you’ve made me happy here—and I want to be with you.”

Damen must see something of sincerity in his face because he gathers Laurent in his arms and holds him close, tight enough to his chest that he must feel his heartbeat rabbiting away.

“I want to be with you too,” he whispers, and Laurent shivers.

 

 

That night, as Damen sleeps, Laurent plots his escape.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Y'ALL DIDN'T REALLY THINK LAURENT HAD BEEN STOCKHOLM-ED, DID YOU????
> 
> also i'm so sorry this is late and short! work is officially kicking my ass, and my mind has been pulled in so many different directions recently. i'm hoping once i settle into a rhythm, i'll be able to figure out a better updating schedule.
> 
> comments & kudos pls. let me know what you're thinking!


	15. Chapter 15

 

#  _xv._

The pier is crowded with both Akielons and Patrans moving up and down the wooden length of it, loading up the fleet of ships with supplies, shouting at each other to check that each vessel is ready to sail, and saying last minute farewells.

Laurent spots Aimeric and Jord beside one ship that's particularly hectic, though you’d never know it by the way they gaze at each other as if no one else is around. Laurent watches as Jord places a hand on Aimeric’s shoulder and squeezes, a gesture of camaraderie rather than intimacy, but his fingers linger to the point of inappropriateness before Aimeric finally pulls away and ventures back down the pier. He joins Kastor and Jokaste who watch the proceedings from higher up on shore; Jokaste gossips with her ladies in waiting while Kastor strokes fingers through Aimeric’s dark hair as soon as the boy kneels obediently at his side.

“Your brother isn’t joining the raid?” Laurent asks.

Damen glances over at Kastor and Jokaste and frowns. “No. Someone has to stay behind and oversee the kingdom since father’s fallen ill. Kastor volunteered.”

Laurent notes that it’s convenient he managed to fall ill almost immediately following the Patran welcoming feast. “How is the King?” he asks carefully.

Damen turns adoring eyes on Laurent, touched that he cares enough to ask. “My father is tough,” he assures him. “I have no doubt whatever ails him will have passed by the time we sail home.” Damen reaches up and strokes a finger down the side of Laurent’s neck. “You should worry more about yourself. The journey to Vere is perilous.”

“I survived the sail here, didn’t I?” Laurent says coolly.

Damen drops his hand. “I got you something,” he says, wisely redirecting the conversation. He gestures with a hand and a pair of serving boys, who look in awe of their crown prince and his famed slave, quickly carry over an engraved wooden chest. They unlock it and present it to Damen with heads bowed.

“Exalted,” they both murmur as Damen reaches inside and pulls out something impossibly white. A fur cloak with a wide hood and a golden clasp at the neck in the shape of a lion unfurls until the hem nearly touches the ground. Akielos, with its tropical climate all year around, has little use for such a thing; procuring a cloak of this quality from, Laurent can only assume, Vask must have cost a fortune. But Damen treats it as if it is simply Laurent’s due, wrapping it around his shoulders with a dramatic sweep of his arms. “There,” he says, smoothing brown fingers over the ridiculously soft fur. “Now you won’t be cold on the ship.”

Laurent, in spite of himself, feels a blush begin to bloom in his cheeks and knows his pallor gives him away. “Well,” he says, words carefully measured. He reaches up to touch the lion clasp. “If I was allowed to dress in more than a glorified napkin, you wouldn’t have had to go to all the trouble.”

Damen laughs, loud and bright enough to draw all eyes to them. Aware that he’s made a spectacle of himself but unashamed, Damen takes Laurent’s hand and laces their fingers together, lifting their joined hands into the air as if they’re already victorious. “With Aphrodite’s chosen son,” Damen calls to the crowd. “How can this raid bring us anything but glory?”

It seems like half the city has come to see them off, and, at their prince’s declaration, they burst into cheers and claps, thunderous in their approval. Kastor doesn’t even crack a smile.

“My people love you,” Damen says, turning back to Laurent.

Laurent doesn’t quite have the heart to tell Damen that the people of Akielos don’t love _him_ ; they love the lies told about him.

 

 

Soon after they set sail, Laurent learns that traveling the world is Erasmus’ dream. Laurent had thought any dreams or aspirations would have been trained out of slaves, but Erasmus looks at the open sea with all the wonder and awe of a child. It makes Laurent’s stomach twist, and reminds him of why he can never stay in Akielos.

“Do you ever want something more than this?” Laurent asks Isander, eyes still fixed on where Erasmus is peering over the side of the ship. He and Isander are sitting side by side under the ridiculous makeshift awning that’s been constructed to keep Damen’s slaves properly shaded. God forbid any of them besides Isander become darker than milk. Apparently it’s common enough to bring servants—and even women and children—on raids like this where they plan to make camp and stay awhile. Bringing slaves, however, is a luxury few can afford and a testament to Damen’s status as crown prince.

“You mean like being a king?” Isander asks, shifting just a little bit closer.

Isander’s comment hits closer to home than Laurent’s comfortable with, so he rephrases the question, “Don’t you ever want a choice? To be something, or,” Laurent adds, recalling Erasmus and Kallias, and their stolen time together, “to be with someone who isn’t your master?”

Isander is quiet for a long moment, sneaking another glance at Laurent and then looking away. Finally, he says, “Sometimes.”

 

 

The journey isn’t nearly as long or as miserable as Laurent remembers. The sun beams high in the sky, but the fierce wind as they move across the ocean chills Laurent to the bone and makes him grateful for his new cloak. The other slaves aren’t as lucky and huddle together for warmth.

Laurent offers to share half his cloak with Isander, who has become something of Laurent’s only friend on this journey, and the boy eagerly presses as close as possible, soaking up his body heat. More than once Laurent feels Damen’s eyes on the two of them.

 

 

Most of Laurent’s time is spent lounging indolently atop a pile of luxurious carpets and furs, snacking on dates, cheeses, and soft bread, watching the Akielon warriors row in perfect tandem. Not one warrior complains about the difference in treatment.

Occasionally Damen will come over to check on them, asking in gentle tones if they’re all comfortable while his slaves gaze up at him like he put the stars in the sky and say breathlessly ‘ _yes Exalted_ ’. Never mind that they’re shivering from the wind ruthlessly whipping at their bare skin, bringing with it a fine mist of sea water.

Mostly though, Damen is busy being a leader. He paces the length of the ship, eyes squinting into the distance for any sign of land, and hunches over a crude map of Vere with Nikandros, hashing out details of the upcoming raid. When the men begin to look weary, he gestures for Erasmus to recite an Akielon myth or ballad, and it's never long before the men begin to chime in, their spirits rising with the sound of Erasmus’ voice. His men love and respect him; Damen is the sun they revolve around. Laurent doesn't know why he's surprised.

 

 

He tries not to look at the ocean too closely, afraid he’ll see his brother’s face reflected back at him. Instead Laurent watches Damen. He memorizes the way his cape sits on his shoulders, the gleam of his bronze skin as the sun dips beneath the horizon in tones of fire and gold, how his laugh sounds when shared with a friend, deep and like its been pulled straight from his belly.

And Laurent can admit, if only to himself, that he might be a little bit in love.

 

 

On the third day, Laurent wakes up to the sun inching above the horizon, illuminating the faint outline of Vere in the distance.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> hi y'all sorry it's been so long. just know i will **not** abandon this fic even if i disappear for a while.
> 
> as always, comments and kudos make the time poured into writing fic worth every minute, so let me know what you think! any predictions for the next chapter? :)


	16. Chapter 16

 

#  _xvi._

The Patran party meets them on shore.

Torveld and Damen immediately move off to the side, talking in low tones about what happens next while men haul supplies from the ship. Jord disembarks and comes to stand beside Laurent, clearly not planning to leave his side for the remainder of the trip.

Laurent looks off to where the shore slowly melts into forest. Vere is almost exactly as Laurent remembers, greener than ever in the dwindling summer months. He knows better than to expect signs of a ruined kingdom; his uncle is a lot of things, but incompetent, unfortunately, is not one of them. The doubt creeps in, as it always does, when he thinks about returning to Arles. Why fix something that, by all appearances, isn't broken?

Laurent closes his eyes, breathing in the salty air. He thinks of his uncle, how he must look now: dressed in scarlet, a golden crown adorning his dark hair, seated on the throne where his father had sat— _where Auguste should have sat_ —with a boy by his side, dressed like a pet and still flush with the innocence of childhood.

When Laurent opens his eyes again they're hard and cold. There are some things he cannot forgive.

 

 

They make camp in a clearing surrounded by thick forest. The distance between the camp and the nearest town is carefully judged—close enough that the trek to town shouldn’t tire the soldiers out before the raid, but far enough that their camp will not be easily spotted among the towering trees. Laurent has no idea how long they plan to stay in Vere—days maybe, or even weeks if they are clever enough—but that’s the least of his concerns right now.

By himself he has neither the strength nor the power to stop Damen. All he can do is focus on is his escape.

As everyone begins to split off to their respective duties, he pulls Jord aside and walks with him until he’s sure they’re well on the opposite side of the camp from Damen. All around them men and women make preparations for their stay, chopping wood for fires and protection, building a barrier around the clearing they’ve settled in, the ends of logs sharpened to points directed outward towards any who would try to trespass.

Jord opens his mouth to speak but Laurent doesn’t give him the chance.

“I’m leaving here. Tonight,” he says.

Jord eyes go wide. “I’ll come with you, Your Highness,” he replies, and Laurent studies him. There isn’t a trace of hesitation in him. _You chose well, Auguste,_ he thinks.

“Be ready by sunset,” he says before turning and picking his way back through the camp.

 

 

Later, when everything is coming together nicely and the men have finished their preparations for the raid, Damen pulls him aside and places a large, warm palm against Laurent’s cheek. The blond leans into the touch, allowing himself to savor it. He doesn’t plan to see Damen again after this, and if they do meet it will be as enemies.

“We’ll be back around nightfall,” Damen promises, drawing away slowly.

Laurent says nothing, but it's clear Damen doesn't expect encouragement when it comes to this. He watches until both the Patran and Akielon warriors disappear beyond the trees.

 

 

The most difficult part of preparations turns out to be finding appropriate clothing. Surprisingly, or maybe unsurprisingly, no one bats an eyelash at Laurent walking into Damen's tent and rifling through his things. Damen has always been too indulgent with letting Laurent behave as he likes. It seems his countrymen have taken to doing the same.

Laurent steals what he can that’s valuable; it’s not as if Damen will miss it, and there’s a delicious feeling of petty revenge after what he did to Laurent’s monastery. His collar and cuffs won’t be much use as currency until they find a blacksmith to strike the gold off anyway. And a disguise…

“This isn’t going to work,” he says, holding one of Damen’s chitons against his body; it dwarfs him an embarrassing amount. If anything, it would draw even more attention than his loincloth.

Jord, who is hovering just outside the tent's entrance as inconspicuous as possible, turns to peer inside. When he spots Laurent, his mouth twitches like he’s trying to smother a smile. Laurent’s gaze pauses on his face at the unexpectedly boyish expression, then slides steadily lower. Jord clears his throat, the ruddy beginnings of a flush creeping in under the intense scrutiny. “Y-your Highness?”

Laurent ignores him. Jord’s a little broader in the shoulders, a little thicker in the waist, and an inch or two shorter, but it’s workable.

“Where’s your tent, Jord?"

 

 

At sunset Laurent and Jord edge along the perimeter of the camp in the waning light.

Everyone is in a frenzy preparing for the raiding party's return, cooking food, fetching firewood, and setting up tables wherever there's room left over. It's easy enough for them to slip out unnoticed among the bustle once Laurent's signature golden hair is tucked up carefully beneath a ratty scarf.

The forest is dense, cool, and quiet around them as they move further from the camp. Sunlight stabs through the gaps between the trees in shafts of gold, making it easy enough to maneuver through the undergrowth, but Laurent knows the light won't last. Jord is a comforting presence at his back, watching for enemies.

The sunlight starts to wane in earnest after half an hour of walking, quickly making its descent toward the horizon and below until they are left in the eery half-glow of twilight.

Laurent is focused on moving forward, walking as far as they can before night completely falls and plunges them into darkness. He hears a distinct rustle up ahead and stops, Jord pulling up short just behind him. In front of them, Laurent can just make out the silhouette of a man, but Laurent can't say if he's Akielon, Patran, or Veretian cloaked as he is in shadow. The sound of metal sliding from a sheath breaks through the quiet sounds of the forest, and Laurent knows they've been spotted in return.

He sees Jord tense from the corner of his eyes, hand going for the blade at his thigh, but Laurent reaches behind him and gestures for him to wait. The man must interpret their stillness as surrender because he walks forward, twigs and leaves crunching beneath the soles of his boots. As he draws closer, Laurent gets a better look at him. From his pale skin to the dark tangle of his hair, the man looks classically Veretian. But Damen and Torveld made sure they'd been a least a couple miles from the nearest town, and for a soldier to be wandering this far from any of the Forts is highly unlikely. Unless...

"Thank God you've found us!" Laurent says, Veretian rolling off his tongue with familiar ease. It's been months since he's had cause to use it for anything other than whispers, as Damen found it irritating when he conversed with Jord in a language he couldn't understand, but his tongue has always been silver. The soldier, who'd been approaching at a steady, menacing pace, slows, seemingly puzzled by this friendly greeting. He can feel Jord just as confused by his side, but luckily he knows better than to say anything right now.

"Who are you?" the man asks in a gruff, no-nonsense kind of voice.

"Merchants," Laurent replies smoothly. It's the only explanation for their foreign attire that makes sense, barring the truth of course. "Lost our way. Not used to being in a place where we can't track the sky."

"And where are you headed?" The soldier is close enough to make out in detail now. He's dressed for war, all chain mail and spit-shined vambraces. His hand rests comfortably on the hilt of the sword at his hip. He does not bear the signature blue Laurent associates with the military of Vere. No, instead he wears deep red like spilled blood. It takes every ounce of his self control to keep his expression open and friendly even as disgust coils in his gut at the sight of his uncle’s colors.

"The capital." He can practically see Jord's lips thinning as Laurent tells him their destination, but lies are better swallowed when sweetened with some truth. "Going to stop by Lys first. Lots of opportunities for trading cloth up there."

"A cloth merchant," the soldier mutters more to himself than them. He seems more relaxed now even as he glances around, scoping for bandits hiding in the foliage. "You look a little young to be a merchant. Where is your caravan?" he asks, a note of suspicion creeping back into his tone.

"Ah, it's actually my older cousin Charls’ business. You’ve heard of the cloth merchant Charls, haven’t you?” Laurent doesn’t allow him to answer before continuing on amiably. “He’s been sick lately. Couldn't make the trip all the way to Vere. I've been doing my best but the terrain is foreign to me, and we lost the caravan a ways back," Laurent says, voice full of regret. His eyes dip low with the emotion, but never fully leave the soldier's face. The man expression turns grim, and his hand tightens around the hilt of his sword again. Jord seems seconds from going for his own weapon, but the soldier is too close for Laurent to placate him without being noticed.

"Did something happen?" he asks, and he sounds eager for a fight. The soldiers must be here because they caught wind of the raid, which can only mean there is a spy. Technically, there's too broad a range of possibilities for who it could be. But despite that, Laurent is almost certain he knows who the Judas in Akielos’ midst is. He lets his shoulders slump, presses a hand over his face as he nods. It's easy enough to pretend to be drained and demoralized; Laurent has become intimately familiar with the feeling during his time as a slave.

"Barbarians got us," he confides. Not a total lie. "Don't know where they came from. Big, monstrous fellows.” He glances back at Jord, who looks like he's trying not to have an aneurysm as he lets this all play out. "Took everything, even the horse. Had to run into the forest to get them off our trail. We'd been walking for hours trying to find our way back to town when you showed up."

"Savages," the soldier spits, shaking his head as if trying to get a bad taste out of his mouth. "Not to worry. We'll be taking care of those pagans by order of the crown. We don't need animals like that in this country."

"God's blessings be on Vere," Laurent replies dutifully before adding, "If you could point us in the correct direction, we'll be on our way."

"I'll escort you," the soldier offers, and there's something hopeful in his eyes that Laurent recognizes. His clothes might be ill fitting, his hair hidden beneath an ugly scarf, but it seems the beauty of his face is enough to buy him some good will from this man. He tempers the urge to roll his eyes and instead flashes a sweet, insincere smile of thanks.

They follow the soldier while Laurent makes idle chatter about different types of cloths to fill the silence and maintain their alibi. Up ahead, Laurent sees the distant glow of a campfire.

"We're still a ways away from any sort of town, and it's not safe to be in this forest alone at night," the soldier says, glancing back at Laurent the same way Isander sometimes did, as if expectant and anxious all at once. "I'll allow you to sleep in my tent tonight. In the morning I'd be happy to escort you the rest of the way to town."

 _How generous_ , Laurent thinks with an inward snort. The soldier is not subtle, still young and green. After so long in Akielos, he'd nearly forgotten it was sin for a man to lie with a woman before marriage. Not that he has any such inclinations himself; Auguste always said he’d grow into it, but Laurent decidedly has not. This soldier must be thinking him a lucky find for the night, Laurent muses. Too bad for him, the last place Laurent plans to be is in the midst of his uncle's men.

"I'd appreciate that," Laurent replies in the coy tone he's often heard Erasmus use. The soldier turns away, clearly trying to hide the lascivious grin Laurent can see pulling at his cheeks, and Laurent strikes as soon as his back is turned. He delivers a swift hit to the man's temple, watching as he crumples. Jord catches his body before he can collapse fully to the ground. He lowers the soldier as quietly as he can, then straightens back up.

Laurent rakes his eyes over the fallen man before kneeling to take his sword. He tests its weight in his hand, then loosens the belt around the soldier's hips, fastening it around his own instead and placing the blade back in its sheath.

"My uncle knows they're here," Laurent says.

"Then he's planning an ambush," Jord replies, looking in the direction of the Veretian camp. _And it's well timed. Nearly all the warriors are away right now,_ he doesn’t say. Laurent hears it in his tone anyway.

"Yes.” Laurent carefully avoids Jord's eyes. Damen and the others should be back soon—probably. "Let's go."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> hey guys, sorry it took me so long to write this. i've had half of this chapter sitting around forever, but i just couldn't seem to finish it until now. work really and truly does a number on my creativity. 
> 
> as always, comments and kudos are appreciated!


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